


Still Catch The Tide

by dwell_the_brave



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Case Fic, Community: harrydracobang, F/M, Forced Marriage, Harry/Draco Big Bang 2018, M/M, Murder, Murder Mystery, Post-Hogwarts, Stillbirth, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-14
Updated: 2018-09-14
Packaged: 2019-07-04 08:03:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 57,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15837135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dwell_the_brave/pseuds/dwell_the_brave
Summary: When a ravaged body is found on Blackpool beach front, newly partnered Aurors Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy are sent to investigate. This is a make-or-break case for Harry - solve the case and not scare his partner away, or risk his career. But when another body appears, and another, this mystery goes far deeper than either of them could have imagined.





	Still Catch The Tide

******Still Catch The Tide**

 

Monday morning in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was always chaos. Investigative cases were being picked up again after the weekend, the sunken bullpen was alive with the weekend crew handing off to the barely-awake Aurors who were taking over from them, and the division heads were huddled together in Gawain Robards' office, discussing how to meet objectives for the week.

 

This was the kind of chaos Harry Potter liked walking into on a Monday morning. The calm before the storm, as it were. He inclined his head at Louisa, Robards' secretary, and wound his way through the bullpen to his cubicle. Unlike its neighbours, it was devoid of personal effects. Robson on his left had pictures of his freckled daughter magically stuck to every available inch of space on the board surrounding his desk, and Naseem on Harry’s right had the scribblings of his grandson framed and propped up at all angles. All Harry had was a small Chudley Cannons flag and a sticker from Weasley Wizard Wheezes. His desk had looked a lot friendlier before Friday, before he had pulled down every picture of Ginny and taken them home to hide and never look at again.

 

Harry dropped his worn brown satchel, his old school bag, down by the corner of his desk, shucked his Auror-issue jacket, hanging it on the hook provided at the edge of his cubicle, before dropping into his seat. A stack of files was piled up in the centre of the desk, and they started tutting at him exasperatedly, their deadlines all creeping up. Harry tried to shush them, with no success, as he rolled up his shirtsleeves. The one thing he hated most about his job was the paperwork, and it kept piling up these days.

 

“That’s quite a pile you’ve got there, Potter,” he heard from behind him, and Harry turned to see that Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister for Magic, was standing there, a small smile playing at the edges of his mouth. A very harassed looking assistant idled behind him, memos bouncing off her presumably once neat hair.

 

“Yes, Sir,” Harry agreed, elbowing the pile as one particularly whiny file began to make a high-pitched whining sound. The pile began tutting again in earnest, but Harry pretended to ignore it, feeling heat rising on his face. The Minister raised an eyebrow in amusement. Shacklebolt had a way of making him feel like he was 15 all over again, and Harry found it very embarrassing.  

 

“Try to clear some of them, will you?” Shacklebolt said, making to walk away and then turning back. “Oh, and will you come into Robards' office in about 10 minutes? I have something I’d like to discuss with you, with Robards present,” he added, and then he strode away, purple robes sweeping behind him, his assistant scurrying along in his wake. A few of the Aurors looked on with admiration, while others shot Harry curious looks. He ignored them and turned back around to face his desk and pulled the first file off the pile, opening it and scanning the paperwork therein.

 

‘ _Abandoned Protocol_ ’. ‘ _Reckless endangerment_ ’. _‘No sense of self-preservation_ ’. Ah, so Ross had finally got around to submitting his final report from their latest investigation. Harry reread the report again and frowned. The investigation had ended with them confronting their suspect in a back alley off Diagon with wands drawn. While Ross had been determined to talk the suspect down, Harry had made an assessment and decided on a direct confrontation, and in the end the suspect had ended up in Auror custody, so what did it matter that Harry himself had ended up with broken ribs?

 

He flicked to the end of the report and saw that Ross had put a request in to change partners, citing a fear for his own safety while working alongside Harry. His signature, a very untidy scrawl, rounded the whole thing off. A hot rush of anger swept through Harry and before he knew it, he had picked the report up from his desk and stormed over to Ross at his own desk, dropping the file in front of him.

 

“Giving up on me, are you?” he asked flatly, and Ross looked over his shoulder at him, his mug of tea half-raised to his lips. His bristle-brush moustache twitched as he set his tea back down and turned to face Harry, lacing his fingers over his middle. Ross had initially reminded Harry of a less rotund version of Uncle Vernon, but he had got to know him during their time working together and found him to be a better man than Vernon Dursley could have ever hoped to be - not that it mattered to Harry right now.

 

“I stand by every word on that report, Potter,” Ross replied, leaning back in his chair, looking for all the world like a casual participant in this conversation. It made Harry’s anger rise again in response.

 

“We got him into custody, what could be more important?” Harry snapped back, and Ross raised a salt-and-pepper eyebrow.

 

“You’re dangerous,” Ross said, and Harry opened his mouth to protest, but Ross cut him off. “Actually, let me rephrase. You’re _a danger_ , to yourself and your partners. You go in, wands blazing, without thinking things through, and you’re lucky you only got splintered ribs for your troubles this time. It could have ended up with you bleeding out in some dirty alleyway, and I’ll be damned if I have the Boy Who Lived’s blood on my record,” Ross continued, shaking his head. He looked Harry up and down, and then frowned, as if torn. “I have a year until retirement, Potter. I want to live to see it, and I won’t if I’m working with you. Take it up with Robards if you have a problem with that,” he said, and he gave Harry a half-smile, an apologetic twist of his lips, before turning his chair back around, firmly ending the conversation.

 

Harry reached down and took the report back, scowling at the back of Ross’ head. Ross had been his third partner in eight months, the highest turnover in the department, and it certainly didn’t reflect well on Harry. It made him look difficult to work with, amongst other things, and teamwork was an essential part of being an Auror, especially in the Field division.

 

Harry made his way back to his own desk and sat down heavily, causing Naseem, who had come in during Harry’s jaunt away at Ross’ desk, to look over.

 

“Monday morning, eh, Potter?” he asked in his raspy voice, giving Harry a warm smile. Adnan Naseem and his wife had unilaterally decided Harry was part of their extended family, and Fahmida often sent her husband in with extra portions of her delicious home-cooking for Harry. He wasn’t entirely sure how he’d get through this latest rough patch without her Masoor Dal Khichdi.

 

They exchanged brief pleasantries and then Harry checked his watch - it had been about 10 minutes since Shacklebolt had spoken to him, so he excused himself to Naseem and wound his way through the bullpen to Robards' office, knocking smartly on the door with his knuckles, ignoring Louisa’s lingering gaze. Shacklebolt’s assistant was slumped against the wall next to Louisa’s desk, clinging to a mug of coffee like it was her only source of solace. Harry often felt sorry for the poor bastards who worked for the Minister.  

 

“Come in,” he heard from inside, and he pushed open the door, stepping in to the room. Same as all the Department Heads' offices, Robards' office had a view over the atrium and the restored Fountain of Magical Brethren, which Hermione still had strong words about whenever they met in the atrium.

 

Robards was sat at his desk as Harry entered, his heavily lined face set in a grim expression. Shacklebolt sat in a leather armchair on Robards' right, his arms crossed over his broad chest, and he nodded his head as Harry moved to stand in front of them both.

 

“Good morning, Sir,” Harry said, standing straight, facing Robards' wide oak desk, and waiting for permission to be seated. Robards gave him a tight smile.

 

“Sit, please, Potter,” he said, and Harry sat in one of the guest chairs in front of Robards' desk, shrugging his shoulders to adjust his wand holster from digging into him. Robards eyed him, and Harry only looked back passively. Everything about Robards was grey, from his hair to his socks. The only colour he ever wore was his Auror Scarlets whenever there was an official occasion for them, and even then they seemed to lose their colour merely by being in his vicinity. That said, he was a good Department Head, and often expressed appreciation for Harry’s endeavours.

 

“Minister Shacklebolt said you wanted to speak with me, Sir?” Harry prompted, shifting in his seat. Robards bobbed his head and leaned forward in his seat.

 

“We received Ross’ final report yesterday evening, and his request for a partner change,” he said, flicking open the file in front of him with a jerk of his hand, and even upside down, Harry could see it was an exact duplicate of the report he had read this morning. He tried not to sigh - he should have known. “We’re… concerned, Potter, for lack of a better term. Your frequent change in partners doesn’t do you, or us, any favours,” he continued, meeting Harry’s gaze evenly. Harry fought the urge to look away, and just blinked. “The Auror teams only work because of trust, and frankly, no one in this office trusts you not to get them killed,” Harry flinched a little, and took a deep breath before speaking.

 

“Sir, with all due respect, I catch the criminals, don’t I?” he replied, and Robards’ eyebrows raised.

 

“No one’s questioning your ability to do your job, Potter. What we’re questioning is how long we can keep you, and your partners, alive while you use your current methods,” he said, and Shacklebolt sat up a bit straighter.

 

“If I might interject-,” he began, and with a nod from Robards, he continued, “It doesn’t, well, it doesn’t look good, Potter. We can’t keep the Boy Who Lived safe, and the outcry reflects on the Ministry, not you. I’ve been speaking with Robards today on how best to proceed,” he said, and Harry frowned at him, turning his gaze back to Robards.

 

“You’re being transferred to the Investigative team, effective immediately,” Robards said, firmly. Harry felt his jaw drop.

 

“What?!” he said, disbelieving, and Shacklebolt nodded.

 

“Immediately, Potter. We’ve found a partner for you to work with, and there’s a new case cropped up just this morning, but you will not be out headhunting, or involving yourself in Field work. You’re a liability that we can’t have right now,” he told Harry firmly, and Harry could only gape in disbelief. He leaned forward in his seat, almost pleading.

 

“Sir, please, is there nothing-,” he started to implore Robards, but he was cut off by Robards’ shaking his head.  

 

“Respect my decision, Potter,” Robards said sharply, and then he sighed and gave Harry a sympathetic once-over. “You’re one of our best, Potter, and I really think you would make a good Head of the department one day, but we want to keep you alive for that. This isn’t 1998 anymore, you need to grow up,” he said and Harry felt like someone had punched him in the sternum. Even Shacklebolt gave Robards a sharp look.

 

Before Harry could say anything further, there was a knock on the door and Robards called for the person to enter. The door opened, and Harry felt even more winded. Draco Malfoy stood in the doorway, neat in his Auror jacket, trousers pressed and unwrinkled, his shoes buffed to perfection. In comparison, Harry felt like he had been dragged out of a gutter, his trousers a wrinkled mess and his shirt sleeves rolled up, jacket nowhere to be seen.

 

“Ah, Malfoy, yes, please sit,” Robards said, and Malfoy nodded, pausing momentarily when he caught sight of Harry before taking the seat next to him. “I believe you know Potter from your school days?” he said lightly, and Harry resisted the urge to glare at him. His and Malfoy’s schoolboy rivalry was well documented, especially thanks to Rita Skeeter’s unauthorised biography of Harry, ‘ _The Boy Who Lived - A Legend Retold’_. She had spent three chapters documenting their history, including charming quotes from ‘anonymous sources’, who could only have been Malfoy’s fellow Slytherins.

 

“Yes, Sir,” Malfoy said quietly, and he studiously avoided looking over at Harry, though the tension was visible in his shoulders.

 

“As you're aware, Malfoy, your previous partner, Victoria Armstrong, retired as of Friday last week,” Robards said, opening another file on his desk. Harry glanced at Malfoy, who nodded.

 

“I’m aware, Sir, but as I’ve explained to Lynch, Sir, I’m not adverse to working alone,” he said, and Robards gave him a sharp look. Shacklebolt looked sympathetic, which made Harry’s gut twist. Malfoy hadn’t done anything to endear himself to the Aurors, and Harry had paid attention. Malfoy had started his training the year after Harry, once his year of house arrest was complete and his record expunged by the Ministry. Malfoy had kept to himself, sat alone at lunch, had a cubicle in the far corner of the bullpen away from everyone else, and rarely, if ever, appeared at department gatherings.

 

“That’s not how we operate, Malfoy,” Robards said, shutting the file again and leaning back in his chair. “Every Auror needs a partner. And we’ve decided that you two will partner up for the foreseeable future,” he announced, and Harry’s jaw dropped again. Malfoy’s had done the exact same.

 

“Sir, I must object-!”

 

“But, Sir-!” he and Malfoy objected at the same time, and Shacklebolt cleared his throat to silence them both. He stood and brushed down his robes, and their protests died in their throats.

 

“This isn’t up for discussion, gentlemen. The decision has been made. As Robards has already mentioned to Potter, a new case has been brought to our attention this morning, and this is what you will be working on for the foreseeable future. Potter, Malfoy, report to Lynch for a full briefing. Robards, I thank you for your time this morning,” and with that, he shook Robards’ hand and left the office, Harry and Malfoy barely standing to attention before the door was clicking closed behind him.

 

“I do hope you’ll be able to put past differences aside, gentlemen,” Robards said, picking up both files and tapping them on the edge of his desk, straightening the papers within. “Potter, give these to Lynch. She’s expecting you in five,” he said, sliding the files across the table, and then he waved a hand, dismissing them both. Harry took the files and led the way out of the office, feeling as though someone had just ripped the rug right out from under him.

 

He turned to say something to Malfoy as they passed Louisa’s desk, but he wasn’t behind him. He had slipped past and was already edging his way around the outer edge of the bullpen back to his remote cubicle. Louisa glanced up at Harry but said nothing, though Harry knew the news of his transfer would spread like wildfire that morning, as Louisa couldn’t resist spreading gossip. Harry huffed in annoyance and made his way back to his own desk, sitting down heavily once again.

 

“Upset the Old Man, have you?” Naseem asked, glancing over from his paperwork. Harry shook his head and pressed his lips together. He doubted that Robards wanted him to say anything. He ran a hand through his hair and stood up again.

 

“New assignment, that’s all. I have to go speak to Lynch,” he said, grabbing the files and leaving his cubicle. He wasn’t needed straight away, so he ducked into the kitchen off the bullpen. It was blessedly empty, everyone having already made their morning cup of tea, and Harry tucked himself into a corner beyond the cabinets, dropped his files down, and buried his face in his hands.

 

It wasn’t a demotion, not really. The Investigative team were still given the same rank as Field Aurors, but from within the department they were definitely on a rung below. Field Aurors prided themselves on their fierceness, their quick reactions and level heads under pressure. In contrast, the Investigative team seemed to always be buried under piles of paperwork, noses in books and hands drawing out complicated flow-charts on the floating blackboards that lingered around their area. All they seemed to do was sit still and wait.

 

Harry was not a sit still and wait kind of person - that was Ron, more than him, and Ron had packed it in eight months ago to go and work with George. It’s why Harry had found himself without a partner in the first place, and even when his partner had been Ron, he seemed to end up with more bruises or broken bones than anyone else.

 

In truth, Harry found it hard to trust any of them. Every time he spoke with an older Auror, all he could think of was that they sat aside and waited while Voldemort took over the Ministry. Some of them _must_ have had an idea of what was going on, and none of them did anything to prevent it. Even Robards had stood aside when Pius Thicknesse was appointed Department Head, and he kept his mouth shut during that time as far as Harry could tell. It was hard to feel anything but a deep sense of betrayal towards any of the Aurors.

 

He breathed out deeply and lifted his face out of his hands. The kitchen was still mercifully empty, so Harry made himself a quick cup of tea and picked up the files, before making his way over to Lynch’s desk. Like all of the Division Heads, Lynch sat outside of the bullpen, her desk fully visible but overlooking them all. It was neat and tidy, and a blackboard on the wall next to her often flashed with case updates as the day wore on. At the moment, it was steady, no new developments showing.

 

“Potter,” Lynch said as he approached, not even looking up from a report she was reviewing. “Robards sent you over, did he?”

 

“Yes, Sir,” Harry replied, fully aware that Lynch did not like to be called Ma’am, or any variation thereof. The last recruit that tried that ended up in St. Mungos with a Bee-sting Curse that went awry after they had gone into anaphylactic shock (Lynch had grudgingly apologised). Harry edged forward and dropped the files Robards had given him onto her desk. She didn’t so much as glance at them.

 

“Good. Well, I know you’ll be disappointed to be working for the Investigative division, Potter, what with you being a Field Auror,” she said, and Harry frowned, feeling heat rising in his cheeks. “Being an Investigative Auror takes a completely different set of skills to being a Field Auror, and I don’t expect they’ll come to you quickly. You’re a bit more gung-ho than most, aren’t you?” she continued in her clipped accent, and Harry bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from saying anything. She looked up from the report and gave him a smile that didn’t meet her eyes. Harry looked at her with a carefully controlled expression.

 

Malfoy strode over then, his eyes downcast, and he stopped in front of Lynch’s desk. “Sir,” he said by way of greeting and Lynch ignored him, shuffling her papers slightly before setting them down and looking up.

 

“You’ve been assigned a new case that we received this morning. Forensic Wizards are currently in situ, so I’ll expect we’ll hear their summons shortly. If you could pay attention to the blackboard,” she said curtly, and Harry turned his attention to one of the floating blackboards that edged closer.  The surface wiped clean, and then images began appearing, as if pulled from the chalk embedded in the board.

 

“A Muggle reported a body found on Blackpool beach this morning. Muggle Police responded to the call, we sent along one of our Follow-Along crew, and they found a magical signature, so the case became ours. Body is in a bit of a state,” Lynch explained, her mouth twisting a little at the corners. From the elaborate drawing on the chalkboard, Harry thought that was an understatement. The body didn’t really look like a body at all, just a hunk of ravaged meat. Harry’s stomach turned a little bit.

 

Lynch pulled a thin file from a pile _tsk_ ing away on her desk and held it out. Malfoy stepped forward and took it from her, before stepping back in line with Harry. “Here’s all we know so far. Once we get the summons from Forensics, I expect you to go and check out the site. We have no idea so far if the body was dumped there, or if this is the murder scene. Forensics should be able to offer some answers. Your assigned liaison on the case is Greengrass,” Lynch said and then she paused, raising a pale eyebrow at them. “Well - get going!”

 

“Yes, Sir,” Malfoy said, and he backed away from the desk before slipping away to his cubicle. Harry did the same and followed Malfoy, who held the only copy of the file.

 

Malfoy’s desk was in a corner, his back to a wall, and his cubicle was completely undecorated. Harry scanned the bare surfaces for any sign of personality, but it was the same cork board used for all the cubicles, and there weren’t any puncture marks to suggest there had once been items, but they had been removed. The surfaces were bare, with only a quill and ink bottle perched next to a small stack of files. It looked like Malfoy was merely borrowing the cubicle, rather than working from it.

 

“What does the file say?” Harry asked, and Malfoy nearly jumped out of his skin. He had obviously not realised Harry was following him back to his desk. He put the file down and sat stiffly in his chair. Harry glanced around and snagged a spare chair from a nearby desk and sat down too. He looked at Malfoy expectantly, but he only looked back with something similar to distaste. Without looking at him, Malfoy flicked open the file and moved it to where they could both see.

 

It repeated what Lynch had already said, really. A body had been found in Blackpool, it had been savaged beyond recognition, and Forensics were currently taking samples. Harry bit his tongue, preventing himself from saying what was on the tip of it - ‘ _When are we going?_ ’. He was used to cases where he could dive straight in, Apparate to a location where the suspect was known to be in order to apprehend them. He was not used to waiting.

 

He sighed and leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers in a rhythm against his thighs. Malfoy glanced over but didn’t say anything, and his body language was as rigid as ever. Harry tried to think of something he could say to break the tension.

 

“So - Investigative division? How’d you end up here?” he asked quietly, and Malfoy looked over at him again, an eyebrow raised. He considered Harry for a long moment before giving a long sigh.

 

“I tried out for the Field division, but it was decided I’d do better in Investigative,” he said evenly, and Harry nodded. There was a long stretch of silence, before a shout over the bullpen came for them.

 

“Potter! Malfoy! Forensics summons!” Lynch called, and Harry was on his feet before Malfoy could even react. He walked back to his desk, half-jogging, grabbed his jacket and checked his wand was holstered, before heading back to Lynch’s desk where Malfoy was already waiting, playing with the cuffs of his jacket.

 

Lynch held out a slip of paper to them, and Malfoy took it, glancing over it before handing it to Harry. This, he was familiar with - Apparition coordinates. He scanned them and committed them to memory, before nodding and setting the slip of paper down on Lynch’s desk. She dismissed them with a wave of her hand, and he and Malfoy nodded and left, going around the edge of the bullpen to the large oak doors that led into the Auror’s office, passing through them to the floor’s elevator lobby. While they waited for an elevator down to the Apparition point, Harry tried to take surreptitious looks at Malfoy.

 

He was taller than Harry by a good few inches, and he had grown into his pointed facial features. His hair was long, brushing his shoulders when he turned his head, and peeking beneath the cuff of Malfoy’s jacket, Harry could see a slim black ribbon which he assumed was for tying back hair. Malfoy’s cheekbones were high and sweeping, and his eyelashes so pale they were nearly translucent. His shoulders were lean under his jacket, and tapered to his waist in a way that suggested Malfoy, for being part of the Investigative Division, used the Aurors training gym a fair amount.

 

Harry glanced away before Malfoy could catch him looking. It was one of the many points of contention between him and Ginny during their relationship - that his gaze lingered a little too long on men, and drifted a bit too far away from Ginny. Harry mentally slammed the door on that train of thought before it threatened to overwhelm him. He’d deal with it later, if ever.

 

The elevator dinged at the atrium level, and they strode through the atrium, Harry having to walk a little quicker to keep up with Malfoy’s long steps. The usual morning bustle was dying away, and so Harry didn’t have to fake smiles and waves to those who called out his name, hoping to be acknowledged by the Boy Who Lived. It was tiresome.

 

They slipped between Floos 6 and 8, and wound their way through a thin corridor to the Apparition point, a small room at the back of the Atrium. The Apparition Officers, Wu and Hussain, nodded at Harry as he arrived, but cast suspicious glances at Malfoy, who took his place on one of the dais’ set in the middle of the room.

 

“Off to Blackpool,” Harry said by way of explanation, and Wu gave him a confused look.

 

“It’s the middle of November! What’re you going there for?” he asked, and Harry gave him a half-smile.

 

“Investigation. Sign us out, will you?” he asked, stepping onto a dais himself and then looking over at Malfoy, who nodded, turned on the spot and disappeared with a small _pop_. Harry took a deep breath, cleared his mind of everything but his destination, turned and disappeared as well.

 

**{#}**

 

Weak winter sunlight covered Blackpool beach, which had been cordoned off and covered in Muggle repellent charms by the time Harry and Malfoy arrived, landing on the cold, damp sand. Harry quickly cast a warming charm on himself, and ducked his chin into the neck of his jacket, startled by the wave of cold. The warming charm soon properly settled and then he was following Malfoy down the beach, where he could see the outline of three people circling like vultures.

 

He recognised one of them easily. “Oi! Parvati!” he shouted, and his old classmate turned around to look at him, a smile on her pretty face. She waved a hand at him, and Harry saw the acid green Quick Quotes Quill tremble in the air beside her. Malfoy skirted around them, ignoring the small group, and ducked under the cordon rope.

 

“Harry,” Parvati trilled at him as he approached, looking pleased with herself. “You’ve been assigned to this case, then?” she asked, and Harry eyed her Quick Quotes Quill with disgust.

 

“No comment. This is a crime scene undergoing an active investigation, Parvati. Clear off, will you?” he asked, and her face collapsed into a pout.

 

“Oh, come along, Harry, for old time’s sake?” she asked, reaching out to brush imaginary dust off his shoulder. He gave her a sharp look and took a step back.

 

“No. Go on,” he said, gesturing for her to head back up the beach. She sighed, nodding at her companions - a photographer who scowled at his already-smoking camera, and another journalist from the looks of it. She turned back to Harry and eyed him, tucking her bottom lip under her teeth. He assumed she was attempting to seduce him into saying something, but Harry felt unfazed.

 

“No comment for me though, Harry? Not even about the rumours that you and Holyhead Harpies’ sweetheart, Ginny Weasley, have called it quits?” she asked, and Harry felt his scowl deepen.

 

“No comment. Leave, Parvati, I don’t want to have to ask you again,” Harry said, and Parvati sighed and then turned on her heel and staggered her way up the beach, her heels sinking into the sand as she walked. Harry ducked under the floating cordon rope, and made his way through to where Malfoy was standing, looking down at the ground.

 

It was worse than the chalk drawing. There was really no distinguishing it as a human - all that was left was a chunk of bloody meat and the smell that accompanied it. Harry covered his nose and mouth with the crook of his elbow and studied the body.

 

It quite simply looked as though it had been torn apart in a frenzy. Long gashes ran the length of what Harry assumed was a torso, and the blood that had pooled around the body looked sticky and thick. A strong smell of iron rose up around the body, and Harry tried not to gag. Around the body, the forensic team were pointing their wands at various gashes and pulling things away, dropping them into plastic bags which sealed with audible sucking noises before disappearing with a _pop_.  

 

“The blood has coagulated,” Malfoy said, more to himself than to anyone else. One of the Forensic Wizards nodded at him, confirming his statement.

 

“Based on lividity, I’d say death occurred about 7 hours ago,” another of them said, from where she was crouched over the body. Her voice was muffled by the mask covering the lower half of her face.

 

“You can tell?” Harry asked, lifting his mouth from his sleeve, gulping down some air, trying not to taste it. The Forensic Wizard looked up at him, one of her thin dark eyebrows raised.

 

"Of course I can. Muggle practises of Forensics are actually quite useful,” she replied, a bit curtly, and she stood. She pulled the mask away from her face, tucking it beneath her chin, and Harry was struck by the familiarity of her. A pert nose and pale blue eyes, her dark hair was tucked under the hood of the PPE she wore. She eyed him, before turning her attention to Malfoy and leaning over the body to kiss his cheek.

 

“Hello darling, how’re you?” she said by way of greeting, careful to keep her hands away from him - her gloves were covered in things Harry didn’t want to think about.

 

“Well, thank you. And you?” Malfoy asked in reply, but he wasn’t look at her face. Instead, he was studying the body at their feet.

 

“Bloody cold,” the woman replied with a light laugh, before turning her attention to Harry. “It’s Daphne Greengrass, Potter. I doubt you’d remember, though,” she said and Harry felt heat rise on his cheeks.

 

“I recognised your face,” he said quietly, and she shrugged one shoulder in reply. She rolled her shoulders and stepped around the body until she was standing between Harry and Malfoy, her hands on her hips.

 

“Not too much I can tell you right now, I’m afraid. We need to get them back to the lab to confirm time of death and identity. Murder weapon is unknown, but if I didn’t know better, I’d say it was savaged by some sort of animal,” she said, and Malfoy made a small noise.

 

“No chance of a Werewolf or the like?” he asked, and Harry felt Malfoy’s gaze slide over to him, as if wary of his response to the question. He ignored it and bit back the chance to defend Werewolves. He and Andromeda Tonks had established the Lupin Foundation not two years before, hoping to educate the wider community about Werewolves and provide resources, but they had faced some backlash. Harry still found he became quite defensive at any implication of Werewolves being dangerous.

 

“Not a full moon last night, and at any rate, Werewolves just tend to bite the once. No, this was something else,” Greengrass said, tapping her fingers against her hips. One of her colleagues looked up and jerked his head at her, and she sighed. “Better get back to it. Just ask if you need anything else. Oh, and Draco?” Malfoy looked back at her. “Mummy wants an RSVP for the Feast of the Einherjar on Thursday. Do let her know.” Greengrass then stepped away, sashaying her hips a bit if Harry didn’t know better. He raised an eyebrow at Malfoy, who lifted his chin a little.

 

“The Greengrasses are old family friends,” he said quietly, and Harry shrugged one shoulder and wrinkled his nose.

 

“Whatever you do off duty is between you and the parole board,” he said tightly, and as soon as the words slipped from his mouth, he knew it was the worst thing he could say. Malfoy’s entire body stiffened, as if someone had just slapped him, and any colour in his face drained, leaving him pale and peaky-looking. Harry felt like the Earth opening up and swallowing him whole was a fantastic idea at that very second.

 

“I-” he started to say but Malfoy had turned sharply on his heel and marched back up the beach. Harry slapped a hand to his forehead and turned his face to the sky, grimacing against the sunlight. Merlin help him and his fool mouth. He inhaled deeply, and then dropped his hand and turned to face the way Malfoy had gone, his scarlet panelled jacket stark against the grey landscape. Without a look back at the Forensic Wizards, of which Greengrass was most definitely giving him the evil eye, he ran up the beach after Malfoy.

 

“Malfoy!” he shouted, but the other man didn’t turn around or even seem to acknowledge Harry at all. His pale hair caught in the wind coming in off the sea and lifted, looking like mist swirling around Malfoy’s head.  Harry’s boots crunched in the wet sand and his thighs burned from running in sand, but he kept going until he just about caught up with Malfoy. “Malfoy, wait!” he said, pressing a hand into his side. His ribs ached with a stitch, and he made a mental note to spend more time in the training gym.

 

“What?” Malfoy snapped viciously, turned around. His eyes were blazing, his jaw set angrily, and Harry tried to catch his breath.

 

“I - I’m sorry,” he managed to pant out, hissing between his teeth as his side seized. “It - it slipped out. It wasn’t fair of me to say,” he continued, and Malfoy gave a curt nod, but Harry could tell that he was not appeased by his apology. Before he could say anything further, Malfoy spoke.

 

“We’ll need to speak to local residents, see if they saw anything. I’ll speak to some of the proprietors on the promenade,” he said firmly, and Harry nodded. Malfoy looked up and down the beach. “You should speak to some of the irregulars nearby. They’re usually very good sources of information,” he suggested, and then he turned away once again, heading up to the promenade. Harry wheezed a little and forced himself to stand up straight, ignoring the ache in his side, confused. ‘ _Irregulars_ ’? He looked around, but all he could see were two men in bedraggled clothing huddled around a bin up by the pier. Realisation hit him - Malfoy wanted him to speak with the homeless.

 

He withdrew his wand from the holster at this side and tapped it against the sleeve of his Auror jacket. The material rippled and darkened, growing longer and thicker until he was wearing a very Muggle-looking coat. He slipped his wand up his sleeve rather than return it to the holster, as he wasn’t sure how much convincing they would need.

 

“Excuse me?" he called as he approached, and the two men started, one of them blinking blearily at him, the other looking ready to bolt.

 

“Whatchu want?” the one who stood his ground said, one hand trembling slightly. Harry felt a twist of sympathy in his gut. A bitter wind was whipping in off the sea and neither men had scarves or gloves. Harry schooled his face into a friendly expression and stepped a bit closer.

 

“Just asking around - did you see anything unusual on the beach overnight?” he asked, and the men stared at him. Harry thought on his feet. “Only I heard something about some coppers out here this morning, and I'm a bit nosy,” he said with a grin, hoping to appear as nothing more than a tourist, and the man with the trembling hands grinned back toothily at him, deep wrinkles lining his face.

 

“Was a clear night, weren’t it Sam?” he replied, nudging the other man with his elbow. The other man nodded. “Right clear, could see way out. We was up by the Tower, s’warmer there at night cos of the lights,” he said by way of explanation, and Harry nodded, another stab of sympathy running through him. He remembered that final year, moving from place to place with Hermione, always that little bit too hungry, always that little bit too cold. He was going to get these men a hot drink and some scarves, at the very least.

 

“We didn’t see nothing, though,” Sam said, his voice croaky. He wouldn’t meet Harry’s eyes, and Harry felt that was enough to justify giving the man a mental nudge with Legilimency, pulling apart the tendrils of memories in Sam’s mind. Hermione had insisted he train in Legilimency once he had been accepted into the Aurors, and for once he had to agree with her - it was a useful skill. He felt around in Sam’s mind until he found what he wanted, and then he let the memories sink into his own consciousness.

 

_Darkness. Cold wind whipping his cheeks. The ripping lights from the tower casting odd shadows. And from somewhere in the distance, a shout. Not of joy, but of terror. Of pure fear._

 

Harry let the memory absorb, take root, and then he smiled at both men.

 

“Well, thank you. I was just about to get a coffee, would either of you like a drink as well? As a thanks,” he said amiably, and even Sam gave him a weak smile as he agreed to buy two hot chocolates with cream and marshmallows.

 

He wandered up the beachfront to the nearest coffee chain and bought the drinks, charming them to unnoticeably refill for at least the rest of the day, and to stay warm as well. He also popped into a nearby clothing shop and bought two thick warm scarves and some gloves, before heading back to find Sam and his friend. They had moved to sit by a shop front, and Harry handed them their drinks and the shopping bag.

 

“Stay warm!” he said as he left them to it, giving them a cheerful wave as they shouted their thanks after him. His wand still tucked up his sleeve, he sent a slight warming charm zipping their way, and then set off towards Blackpool Tower.

Blackpool was slowly coming to life as the morning progressed into midday. The promenade wasn’t full, but it was certainly busy, and Harry had to slip through gaps in at least three tourist groups in order to avoid traipsing behind them. Thankfully Blackpool Tower wasn’t too far away, and once he reached the looming metal structure, he took a moment to stand in its shadow. He had to crane his neck to see the tower, and the red of the metal was dulled by the winter light, but Harry could see the rows of lights that Sam’s friend had mentioned.

 

He inhaled deeply and then exhaled slowly, grounding himself. The variation of the Reverse Spell that he was going to need used a heavy dose of magic, and he’d managed to knock himself out once or twice previously, nevermind the fact that it was, in fact, an experimental spell.

 

The red brick wall of the building enclosing the tower was cool still as Harry rested his hand against it and breathed out. He tried to look as though he was a tourist taking a second for a breather, and he leaned his body into the wall, closing his eyes.

 

“ _Priori Memoriam_ ,” he murmured, curling his fingers up towards the palm of his hand so that they just brushed the tip of his wand. A spark of magic twisted up his hand and into his body, and Harry opened his eyes to find that the busy Blackpool street he had been standing on had faded away into the darkness of the night before.

 

He stepped away from the wall, conscious that he was leaving his physical body there, as what he was now moving in was only a projection of himself. He looked around and found Sam and his friend sat a bit further down the wall, chins tucked down into the collars of their coats, hands jammed under their armpits to keep them warm. He hoped that they would find the gloves and scarves useful.

 

He took off towards the beach, side-stepping any late-night wanderers, careful to keep an ear out for the scream that Sam’s friend had heard. He dropped down from the promenade to the beach and trudged across the wet sand, glancing back to see that his footsteps didn’t leave a mark as he walked.

 

Suddenly, the shrill shriek he heard in Sam’s friend’s memory pierced the quiet of the beach. Taking off at a run, Harry tried to run in the direction of the sound, but it was too dark on the beachfront of really identify where it had actually come from. _Lumos_ wouldn’t work either, as Harry was merely ghosting through a memory, and nothing he did had any tangible qualities.

 

He squinted in the dark, feeling the edge of the memory creeping up on him, trying to catch sight of anything that would help the investigation. There! Feet away, a squirming mass was rolling around in the dark, but as Harry stepped closer, part of it broke away. A distinctly humanoid shape took off at a run back up the beach, but Harry couldn’t tell whether it was a man or a woman. Instinctively he called out, but the memory swallowed the noise. With a huff, Harry closed his eyes and reached out with his magic, sinking his consciousness back into his physical body. His eyes snapped open with a start, and he jumped to find that Malfoy was standing in front of him, nearly nose-to-nose with him.

 

“Merlin!” Harry exclaimed, clapping a hand over his racing heart. He glared at Malfoy. “What the Hell?”

 

“You looked like you were having a nap. I was making sure you weren’t actually asleep,” Malfoy said, brushing down the sleeve of his jacket. Like Harry, he had charmed his Auror jacket into looking like a Muggle one, though this one was a waxed jacket rather than a coat like Harry had. “Interesting spell you’ve used there,” Malfoy continued, conversationally.

 

“It’s a variation of the Reverse Spell. It’s experimental,” Harry said, shoving his hands in his pockets and trying not to look guilty. He shouldn’t have access to the spell by all accounts, but Hermione passed it on to him for research purposes.

 

“Ah, I see Granger is leaking department secrets then,” Malfoy said, stepping away from the brick wall and walking back towards the beach. Harry followed.

 

“She thought I would find it beneficial, and she needed a powerful wizard to test it out on,” he said by way of explanation, and Malfoy glanced over at him with a sneer.

 

“And she thought that was you?” he said condescendingly, and Harry had to bite the inside of his cheek from saying anything he would later regret. They continued in silence down the beach until they reached the body site again.

 

Greengrass was stood next to the body, waving her wand in a complicated pattern over it. She held up a hand for silence while she worked, until the body disappeared with a _crack_. Then she turned around to look at them both.

 

“Hope you’ve had an enlightening jaunt, boys. I’ve just transported the body to the morgue, I’ll be heading there myself to do some analysis. I’ll get the report to you by tomorrow afternoon.”

 

“Can’t you get it to us by this afternoon?” Harry asked her, and she shot him a exasperated look.

 

“I’ll work as fast as I can, Potter, but we have other ongoing cases too. I’ll send it when I can,” and with that, she turned on her heel, and with another _pop_ , Disapparated. Malfoy looked over the crime scene, but all traces of the body and its bloody end had vanished from the beach. He gave a little nod, more to himself than to Harry.

 

“I’ll see you back at the Ministry,” he said, and then he, too, turned and Disapparated. Harry took a second to pinch the bridge of his nose, slipping his fingers underneath his glasses, trying to stave off the headache he could feel blooming behind his eyes, and then he turned on the spot and with a _pop_ , was gone.

 

**{#}**

 

By the time Harry made it back up to the bullpen, it was nearly 12.30, and he was conscious that he was expected elsewhere. He checked to see where Malfoy was, and he was sat at his desk, head bent low over a piece of parchment, scribbling away. Harry glanced at the clock on the wall and sighed. He had 5 minutes to get down to the Ministry cafeteria.

 

He wound his way through the desks, reaching Malfoy, who looked up as he approached. He looked guarded for a second, until his expression cleared and settled into one of neutral disdain, which Harry felt was reserved purely for him.

 

“I’m going down for lunch, I’ll meet you back here at 1.30?” Harry said, phrasing it so it seemed like it was a question, but it really wasn’t. Malfoy raised a pale eyebrow and then nodded once, before turning his head back down to the parchment. Harry looked at him for a moment, and then left.

 

The cafeteria in the Ministry looked like a Victorian tea room. Lace decorated every available surface, and the powder blue walls made Harry feel like he had wandered into a dollhouse by mistake. But the food was good and it was relatively peaceful, because not many could stomach the décor long enough to eat there. As he strolled in, he spotted Hermione sitting by an enchanted window, and made his way over to her.

 

“Hello stranger,” she said, rising to her feet to pull him into a hug. He turned his face to avoid getting a mouthful of her bushy hair, though in recent years she seemed to have figured out how to deal with it, and the frizz of their youth had been replaced by tight dark corkscrew curls.

 

“Hi,” he said, taking a moment to breathe. There was something very comforting about hugging Hermione, and she knew it, often letting him linger longer than necessary. Even Ron joined in sometimes. They broke apart, and Harry sunk into the chair opposite her, picking up the menu propped in front of him. “Have you ordered?” he asked, and Hermione shook her head, her curls bouncing.

 

“Just some pumpkin juice,” she said, and she folded her hands on the table in front of her while Harry glanced down the menu. There was the rustle of cloth next to them, and a house elf peered at them both, wearing a smart uniform. She placed a pitcher of cold pumpkin juice on the table, and tapped it with one long finger, making the pitch tilt and pour juice into both of their goblets.

 

“Can Mibby be taking Sir and Miss’ orders?” the house elf squeaked while the pitcher worked, and Hermione smiled. It had been her idea to push for House Elves to work for the Ministry, and now there were some who worked in Janitorial or Service positions, and all of them were paid and provided with comfortable accommodation and time off.  Harry glanced down the menu again quickly.

 

“I’ll have the shepherd’s pie,” he said, and Hermione nodded.

 

“Me as well, please,” she added, and Mibby nodded, bowing and then trotting away. Harry laid the menu down and looked at Hermione over the rims of his glasses. She smiled at him. “How’re you?”

 

“I’m alright,” Harry said, leaning back slightly in his chair. “I’ve been reassigned partners though - Ross threw in the towel.” Hermione’s face fell into a frown.

 

“Oh, Harry - what did you do?” she said with a sigh, and Harry’s eyebrows shot up.

 

“Why do you think I did anything?” he asked, defensively, and Hermione raised an eyebrow at him. Harry held her gaze for a moment and then looked away. “I might have… scared him a bit with that case in Diagon the other week,” he said quietly, and Hermione shook her head.

 

“You scared all of us. Ginny was-,” she started but then she stopped as Harry shot her a sharp look. She pressed her lips together and then settled her shoulders back, forcing herself to drop the line of questioning. “Who’s your partner now?” she asked cooly, and Harry ran a hand through his hair.

 

“It’s Malfoy. _And_ , I’ve been moved into Investigation instead,” he said, and Hermione nodded. She seemed unsurprised. Hermione supposedly worked for the Department of Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, but it was an open Ministry secret that she was actually working for the Department of Mysteries, and as such, she usually knew things before the wider Ministry population did. Harry huffed at her. “I suppose you’ve been told already,”

 

“Croaker likes to keep me in the know,” Hermione said primly, picking up her napkin, unfolding it and smoothing it over her lap. She played with the edges for a moment before looking up again, catching Harry’s eye where he was watching her closely. She rolled her eyes. “ _And_ I heard from Christina the tea lady who heard it from Louisa. But that’s not the point, Harry! I hope you do better with Malfoy, Harry. You know the Aurors don’t like lone wolves,” she said, and Harry huffed again. They were silent for a minute.

 

“How was lunch yesterday?” Harry asked. The Weasleys had a standing Sunday Lunch at the Burrow, and this was the first time he hadn’t been in 5 years. He had felt a bit lost yesterday, sat in Grimmauld Place with no one but Kreacher for company.

 

“Fine,” Hermione said, not meeting his eyes. “Molly sends her love, as always,” she continued and Harry gave her an unconvinced look. Hermione rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean. She’s upset - they all are, really - but she still loves you. They all do, in their own Weasley way. I hope you won’t cut them off,” she added, and Harry opened his mouth to reply when Mibby reappeared, two plates floating over her head.

 

“Your shepherd’s pie, Sir and Miss,” she said, and the plates settled down in front of Harry and Hermione with a gentle _thump_. “Can Mibby be getting you anything else?” she asked, and Harry and Hermione shook their heads, thanking her as she left them to it.

 

The next few minutes were filled with silence as they both ate, Harry avoiding Hermione’s concerned gaze.

 

“Ron and I have some news,” Hermione said, pausing between bites. Harry looked up at her, and she had a small smile on her face. She paused, setting down her fork. “We’re trying for a baby,” she said, a pleased flush rising on her cheeks. Harry’s face split into a grin.

 

“That’s amazing!” he said, putting down his fork too and reaching for her hand, squeezing it. Hermione grinned back. “Ron finally gave in then?” he asked, letting go and reaching for his fork again. Hermione nodded, picking up hers as well.

 

“He feels we’re financially comfortable now, so he’s happy to give it a go,” Hermione said, obviously pleased. Harry knew Hermione had wanted to start trying for a while, but Ron wouldn’t hear of it until they had a good amount of money in the bank. He was determined to avoid the poverty of his youth when it came to his own children - though it had caused Hermione endless frustration, Harry could see Ron’s point. He was pleased for them now, though.

 

“I’m glad. You’ll be a great Mum, Hermione,” he said, and she flushed again, smiling down at her plate.

 

They continued to eat, picking up small threads of conversation here and there, until they were both full and Mibby had come to collect their plates. Hermione dabbed at the corners of her mouth with a napkin and then set it down on the table. Harry fished out a few Galleons from his jacket and left them on the table, enough to cover their meals with a tip for Mibby, and stood, pulling his jacket straight. Hermione stood, too, and hugged him.

 

“Do take care of yourself, Harry. And we’ll see you on Thursday for fish and chips?” Hermione asked, stepping back and patting his chest with one hand. Harry nodded and reached for her hand, gave it one last squeeze, and then left, heading back to the bullpen.

 

In the lift, his mind wandered. While he was happy that Ron and Hermione were going to be starting a family soon, part of him was anxious about where that left him. He had had the same anxiety when they got engaged, and then married, and each time nothing much had changed other than Ron shared a room with Hermione instead of Harry now. But a baby - babies changed everything.

 

It was something he had wanted as well. A partner, a family - everything that his parents had before their lives were so cruelly cut short. Harry felt, sometimes, like the very thing he had fought for when he was 17, was the very thing he was being denied. He spent some nights staring up at the ceiling of his bedroom and craving it, with every fibre of his being. Even when Ginny was asleep beside him, he still yearned for it.

 

The lift _dinged._ “ _Level two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, including the Improper Use of Magic Office, Auror Headquarters, and Wizengamot Administration Services,_ ” the disembodied voice called out. Harry slipped past the other occupants and followed the corridor back to the bullpen. He looked around as he entered, but Malfoy was nowhere to be seen, so Harry sat back at his desk and pulled the pile of paperwork, that was still tutting, towards him. He opened the first file and began reading the reports, signing and initialling as needed.

 

It was mind-numbingly dull work, but every time Harry looked up, Malfoy still wasn’t at his desk so he didn’t have much else to do. It must have been an hour or so later when someone next to him cleared their throat, and Harry looked up to find Malfoy looking down at him, a slim file in his hands.

 

“We’ve had a positive ID of the victim,” he said, putting the file down in front of Harry, having to lean around him to do so. Harry caught a whiff of sandalwood and sage, and his head swam a little. He shook it to refocus, and flipped open the file. Greengrass’ report was enclosed, and Harry skim-read it until he came across a name - Piers Braith.

 

“Braith, Braith - that rings a bell,” Harry said, looking up at Malfoy. Malfoy nodded, standing straight and crossing his arms over his chest.

 

“Braith was a Death Eater. Low tier, but one all the same. We studied his case during training, which is why you probably remember his name. He was released from Azkaban two months ago,” Malfoy said, and Harry frowned at him.

 

“How do you know this?” he asked, and Malfoy rolled his eyes.

 

“We weren’t personal acquaintances if that’s what you’re implying,” he said sharply, and Harry opened his mouth to defend himself, but Malfoy continued. “While you were off at lunch, I pulled some records from the Archives. Braith’s record is all in there, last updated by the parole board 3 days ago saying he’d been to their weekly check-in and nothing strange was observed,” he said, looking down at his hands and straightening the cuff of one sleeve.

 

“He didn’t mention meeting anyone?” Harry asked, and Malfoy shook his head.

 

“I’ve the full transcript back at my desk, but nothing was mentioned about visiting someone, or Blackpool, or anything. I’m just waiting on notification of his family’s address so we can pay them a visit,” he said, and Harry nodded. He turned back to Greengrass’ report, reading through it again.

 

“She thinks he was _torn_ _apart_?” he asked aloud, feeling horrified at the thought. Malfoy made a small noise, and Harry looked over to see that he had grimaced.

 

“Not a great way to go, I don’t think,” he said and Harry nodded, wrinkling his nose. There was a fluttering noise and a flock of memos swooped in, scattering to find their recipients. One zoomed over and then swished around Malfoy’s head, paper wings flapping. Malfoy snatched it out of the air and opened it.

 

“They’ve got an address for us,” he said, reading the note quickly. Harry pushed his chair back and stood, stretching slightly to release any tension from his back. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Malfoy’s gaze flick down his body and then away, though his expression didn’t change. Harry stepped away from his desk and let Malfoy lead him over to Lynch’s desk, where she was studying an elaborate map spread out in front of her.

 

“Ah, there you are,” she said distractedly, glancing up. She picked a slip of parchment up from beneath the corner of the map and lifted it up. Malfoy took it from her and Harry thanked her, both of them stepping away and turning. “Just a minute,” she called and they both turned back to face her, rather like naughty school children being summoned back by a teacher. Lynch lifted her head and gave them both a cool look. “Given the victim, I don’t imagine public sympathies will be strong with this case. I urge you to do a quick and clean wrap-up, got it?” she said sternly, and Harry nodded. Malfoy just looked at the floor and didn’t speak. Lynch settled back in her seat and raised an eyebrow at them. “You’re dismissed,” she said curtly, and Harry didn’t hesitate to turn on his heel and stride away, Malfoy right beside him.

 

As they made their way to the lifts, Malfoy glanced down to check the address on the slip of paper he had taken from Lynch. Harry glanced over to check as well - it was an address in Sheffield. “It’s his Mother’s address,” Malfoy said, and Harry sighed.

 

“I guess we're heading there next,” he said, and Malfoy nodded silently. In the lobby, a lift silently waited, as if for them, and as they approached the grill clanged open, giving them entry. As Malfoy walked in behind him, Harry pressed the button for the Atrium - it was back to the Apparition point for them.

 

**{#}**

 

They reappeared in a churchyard just off a wide leafy road. As Malfoy looked around, Harry made his way to the church gate and pushed it open, striding through. They had both transfigured their jackets into something more Muggle-appropriate, but intel suggested that this area of Sheffield, while predominantly Muggle, did have a decently sized Wizarding population.

 

Harry paused on the pavement of the main road and waited for a car to pass before crossing. The houses lining the street were tall Georgian-style ones, and most were well-kept except for the one on the corner, which looked unloved indeed. Overgrown bushes crowded the small front garden, and the stone facade of the building was mottled with moss and sun-stained patches. That was the house they were due to deliver some bad news in.

 

Harry paused at the bottom step to study the peeling red front door. There was no movement from either of the curtained windows on either side of the door, so Harry stepped up and knocked, Malfoy right on his heels.

 

There was barking in the distance, and Harry shoved his hands in his transfigured jacket pockets, but Malfoy cleared his throat pointedly and gave him a significant look. Malfoy’s back was ramrod straight, and his arms were down by his sides. He looked grave, and Harry tried to imitate his look, but was interrupted when the front door opened.

 

An older woman stood before them, frowning. Her robes were luxurious, velvet and embroidered, but had the distinctly worn look of something that had been _Reparo_ ’d many times. Her pale curls were piled on top of her head in a way that reminded Harry of the Edwardian portraits that had been in his primary school History books.

 

“Can I help you gentlemen?” she asked, her accent soft. Harry gave her a half-smile.

 

“Celia Braith?” Harry asked, and the woman nodded, looking confused. “My name is Harry Potter, Ma’am, I’m with the Auror department. This is my partner, Draco Malfoy,” Harry said, tilting his body to gesture to Malfoy, who nodded.

 

“The Auror department?” Mrs Braith asked, a hand flying to her chest in dismay. “This isn’t about Piers is it? Oh, what has he been doing now?! I haven’t seen him all day,” she said, looking irritated rather than concerned.

 

“Could we come inside, Ma’am?” Harry asked, and she nodded, stepping aside to let them through. Inside, the house was dimly lit, and there were stacks of shoes by the front door, a rack full of coats that looked on the verge of collapsing, as well as a pile of post that tottered dangerously as a breeze flew in from the open door. Harry tapped his jacket and the Muggle-style one melted into his Auror one. He saw from the corner of his eye that Malfoy had done the same.

 

“This way, please,” Mrs Braith said, pointing to a door on the left. Harry slipped through, Malfoy following him, with Mrs Braith pulling the door to behind them all. She lowered herself into a wide armchair while Harry sank into a moth-eaten double-seater sofa, Malfoy next to him. “What is it?” Mrs Braith asked, rapping her fingers against the arm of her chair. Harry glanced at Malfoy, who nodded.

 

“I’m afraid we have some bad news, Ma’am,” Harry said and Mrs Braith stiffened. “A body was found at Blackpool beach this morning. I’m sorry to tell you that our Forensic Wizards positively identified the body as Piers earlier,” Harry told her, and while he tried to keep his voice laced with sympathy, he found it hard to actually feel it within himself. Piers had been a Death Eater, and had probably killed or injured his friends during the Battle of Hogwarts.

 

Mrs Braith’s hand drifted up to her mouth, but no tears came. Harry had delivered this news twice previously, and both times the person receiving the news had burst into tears. Mrs Braith was disconcertingly still, rather than tearful.

 

“You’re sure it’s him?” she asked after a long moment of silence. Harry bobbed his head, but Malfoy spoke.

 

“Yes Ma’am. He was identified by his magical signature,” he said, and Mrs Braith looked at him, frowning. She moved her hand away from her mouth and flicked a finger at him.

 

“You’re the Malfoy boy,” she said vaguely, her gaze lingering on him for a moment. Malfoy stiffened in his seat, but said nothing further. Mrs Braith’s eyes flickered shut for a second, a moment of pain passing across her face. She seemed to smother it though, and lifted her head once again. “How did he die?” she asked, and Harry glanced at Malfoy, who kept his face carefully neutral.

 

“That's still under investigation, Ma’am. We are currently classing it as a suspicious death,” he said, and Mrs Braith inhaled sharply.

 

“Do you think he was murdered?” she asked them both and Harry pressed his lips together. Malfoy took a moment to consider his words before speaking again.

 

“The manner of his death was quite violent. As I’ve said, though, this is still under investigation with the Auror department, and we’ll keep you informed of our findings,” he said, and though the words sounded formal, his voice was kind.  Mrs Braith nodded.

 

“We do have some questions for you, if you’re up to it?” Harry asked, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. Mrs Braith eyed him and then nodded, settled her hand into her lap and lifting her chin, composing herself.

 

“Please,” she said, prompting Harry to begin with his questions.

 

“Do you know if Piers had any enemies? Anyone who would like to cause him harm?” he asked, and Mrs Braith let out a bark of a laugh.

 

“My son was a Death Eater, Auror Potter, much to my horror, though he was an incompetent one. He Disapparated before the fighting even started and hid in his room until the Aurors came knocking. I’m sure he had many enemies, on both sides,” she said, and Harry nodded, feeling a pang of shame for assuming otherwise.

 

“Do you know if he had any friends or acquaintances in Blackpool?” he asked, and Mrs Braith thought for a moment, and then shook her head.

 

“Not to my knowledge, no,” she said, tugging at the cuff of her threadbare sleeve. She sniffed. “He was an early release. For good behaviour. He showed signs of reformation, his parole officer said. He was going to turn his life around.” And then her lower lip quivered, and Harry looked away to give her privacy in her moment of grief.

 

“We’re sorry for your loss,” Malfoy said, and Mrs Braith gave him a look like she didn’t believe him, but she said nothing. He stood, and Harry followed him up to his feet. “We should leave you in peace. We will need to search Piers’ room I’m afraid, but that won’t be right now. Would you like me to ask one of our Family Liaison Officers to come and speak to you?” he asked, and Mrs Braith gave a small nod before standing to show them to the door.

 

At the threshold, Harry paused and turned to face Mrs Braith. She looked on the verge of shattering, and Harry briefly touched her arm. “We will do our best to bring him peace, Ma’am,” he said quietly, and she gave him a watery smile before closing the door on them both.

 

On the walk back to the churchyard in the rapidly dimming light, Harry reflected on Mrs Braith’s reaction to her son's death.

 

“She didn’t seem too sad,” he said, and Malfoy glanced over at him. The chilly wind whipped at them both and lifted Malfoy’s hair around his face, framing it in the cool glow of the sunset.

 

“Her son was probably a point of contention in her life. How can you love someone unconditionally when they do terrible things?” he said, shrugging one shoulder. Harry could no longer choke back the question that had been on his tongue all afternoon.

 

“Did you know him? Braith?” he asked, and Malfoy stopped in his tracks, just inside the gate to the churchyard. He gave Harry a withering look.

 

“No. I didn’t,” he said tersely, and Harry was not convinced. Malfoy started walking again, picking up the pace. “The Dark Lord had hundreds of followers, Potter, and the ones I did know I could count on my fingers. I was kept away from any larger conferences, other than those intimate ones at my family home, by my Mother,” he said, glancing over to Harry who was striding along beside him, keeping pace.

 

“Alright,” Harry said, letting the matter drop. If Malfoy said he didn’t know Braith, then Harry would have to believe him. There was no reason not to.

 

**{#}**

 

By the time Harry had written up a vague report for the day, it was nearly time to go home. A few desks had already emptied and the first members of the night shift were trickling in. Harry waved to those he knew, and glanced over to Malfoy’s corner to see it was already empty, the lamp next to it dimmed. Something in him seemed disappointed that Malfoy hadn’t even stopped to say goodbye.

 

“Don’t stay too late, lad,” Naseem said, standing and shrugging on his jacket. Harry gave him a weak smile and bid him a good night. As the day team thinned even more, Harry made a final few adjustments on his report, before dropping his quill down and stretching, his back clicking. He stood up, picking up the satchel which had been resting by his desk all day, and then unsheathed his wand and tapped it against the lamp by his desk, dimming it.

 

He made his way down to the Atrium, bidding goodnight to those he passed, then joining the small queue for the Floo. A house elf in a smart emerald green jacket with gold buttons, green shorts and a small green cap, bowed as he reached the front of the queue and held up a dish of Floo powder.

 

“Please to be having a good evening, Sir,” it squeaked as Harry threw the Floo powder in the fireplace and stepped into the flames, calling out ‘Grimmauld Place’ as he went.

 

The world spun for a minute, brief flashes of rooms beyond as he turned on the spot, until he was shoved out at the right fireplace, landing on his knees in the drawing room of Grimmauld Place. The house was softly lit, and faint smells of cooking drifted in through the open door, but Harry gave the room a distasteful look. There were still too many things that weren’t his scattered around, and while he had threatened to send them off into the ether with a flick of his wand, he wouldn’t really do it.

 

“Master Harry?” came a familiar bullfrog call from the kitchens, and Harry stood, dusting himself off. He dropped his satchel by the doorway and shucked his coat in the hallway, draping it over the staircase banister. It would be tidied away before he had finished his pudding tonight.

 

“Hullo, Kreacher," Harry said in a glum tone as he passed through the doorway into the basement kitchen, taking the steps down. The house elf, thankfully wrestled out of his ragged loincloth of yore into a pair of Harry’s old shorts and an old t-shirt of Ron’s, looked over from the stove. His expression was one of grudging fondness, which Harry felt towards the old Elf as well. They had settled in to a content relationship, he and Kreacher, though Harry felt sometimes it was one of Mutually Assured Destruction rather than any actual liking for each other. But Kreacher was content to be returned to Grimmauld Place, and Harry was glad to not have to clean up after himself all the time.

 

“A good day, Master Harry?” Kreacher croaked, and Harry gave a single nod, settling into the chair he had always taken when the Order resided here that one summer - ten years ago next year, in fact. His place was already set, and as he picked up the linen napkin and smoothed it over his lap, a bottle of wine floated over and poured a healthy measure into the wine glass on his placemat. “A New Zealand Pinot Noir, Master,” Kreacher said, and Harry nodded. The tumbler next to the spoon at the back of the mat filled with pumpkin juice, and Harry picked that up first.

 

“How was your day, Kreacher?” Harry asked, and Kreacher rolled his thin shoulders, obviously ready to complain about something.

 

“Kreacher cleaned the carpets today, Master Harry, and he found the most surprising items under Master Harry’s bed, ones not fit for a -,” but he stopped once Harry’s cough from having inhaled his pumpkin juice got too loud for Kreacher to be heard.

 

“Don’t go under my bed, Kreacher. Or at least give me warning!” Harry said, patting his own chest, his eyes streaming. He used the napkin to dab at them as Kreacher floated a plate over to him. Shepherd’s Pie with a healthy side of buttered greens. Harry groaned inwardly, remembering his earlier meal, and thought that he should have sent Kreacher a note letting him know he’d had a big lunch.

 

“Very well, Master Harry,” Kreacher said with a disdainful sniff, and then he left the kitchen, undoubtedly to find something to tidy and then complain about. Harry picked up his fork and started picking half-heartedly at the food.

 

It might have been because of his time at Hogwarts, or the years that followed, but Harry often struggled to eat in silence. He was used to chatter and noise, the tinkling of goblets and cutlery on plates, Ron reaching an arm across him to grab another bread roll while Hermione ate around a book spread out in front of her. And in the intervening years, Ginny, sat across from him and chatting about her day’s training session, or plans for the upcoming matches.

 

The kitchen of Grimmauld Place seemed so vast and silent all of a sudden.

 

Harry ate a few bites and then pushed his meal around on the plate, though he knew Kreacher would figure out he had eaten barely any of it. He picked up his wine glass and the bottle, and stood, trekking through the house to the staircase. As he had previously predicted, his jacket was no longer slung over the banister of the staircase, but was hung neatly from a peg near the front door, and a freshly shined pair of dragon-hide boots stood on the floor beneath it. Harry resisted the urge to sigh and continued upstairs.

 

The library had become his favourite room in the house. After their thorough cleaning all those summers ago, it was no longer full of dangerous objects, and Harry had filled it with things that brought him comfort. A Wizarding Wireless sat in one corner, and thick fleecy blankets were thrown over the two loveseats and one armchair that were positioned around a fire that was already roaring. Harry sat down in the loveseat closest to the Wireless and set his wine and glass down on the same table, bending to undo his boot laces. He toed them off and slung his legs up onto the sofa, tucking the blanket around him, before turning on the Wireless and picking up his glass of wine in the same motion.

 

“ _And in Quidditch News, the Holyhead Harpies, third in the league, are due to meet Puddlemere United on the pitch this Saturday. Puddlemere, current champions, have had to put their thinking caps on to find a way around Ginny Weasley, the Harpies’ Superstar Chaser, whose recent split from Harry Potter_ -,” and with a flick of his hand, the Wireless fell silent. Harry drank deeply from his glass of wine and stared into the flames licking at the logs Kreacher had carefully loaded into the grate, before reaching for the wine bottle and refilling the glass. He stayed like that until the small hours, until Kreacher ushered him to bed and doused the fire, leaving nothing but cold and grey ash.

 

**{#}**

 

Tuesday morning was bright but grey, giving London a bleached look. Harry had chosen to take the tube into the city centre, enjoying the anonymity it gave him. To the Muggles surrounding him, he was just another commuter, not worthy of interest, and everyone kept their gaze carefully averted.

 

“ _This is Victoria. This is a Victoria Line train to_ -,” but Harry was up and out of his seat and through the doors before he could hear the rest of the announcement. He followed the trail of people, Junior Ministers and Interns and Baristas alike, up through the station into watery winter daylight. He stepped into the crowd milling around Victoria station and set off. He took the long route, glancing over at Buckingham Palace in the winter light, and skirting the edge of St James’ Park, thankful that it was too early for the tourists to have yet descended. He turned down a small side alley opposite the Churchill War Rooms, and meandered his way to the public toilets which hid the entrance to the Ministry.

 

“Morning Potter,” said one Wizard gruffly as Harry joined the queue to the Gents. Harry gave him a smile, but he couldn’t remember the man’s name or even what he did. This was a common experience for him - the Wizarding population would talk to him like he was an old friend, someone they knew intimately, and Harry _hated_ it. He had tried to cultivate an emotional unseen barrier around him, but it only made the wider public want to know _more_ . Weekly articles in the _Daily Prophet_ speculated about his current state of being, and Harry thanked Merlin every day that they never tailed him when he went out at night, because he would have already punched someone if they had.

 

He managed to wait patiently to get to the front of the queue, and once a flush had sounded from the cubicle he was waiting for, he stepped inside and pushed the door closed behind him. He stepped into the toilet bowl and pulled the chain, feeling his body being squeezed for a second before landing on his feet in the Atrium, which was fit to burst as usual.

 

“Read all about it! Weasley Wizard Wheezes taking America by storm!” the _Daily Prophet_ seller shouted into the crowd, and Harry weaved through the crowd to buy a copy of the paper. He scanned the first page in the queue to the lifts, and smiled to himself. Ron had pushed hard for expansion into the States, despite George’s reluctance, and he had pulled it off, it seemed.

 

The lift was cramped when Harry stepped in, wedging himself between an Unspeakable, Grey, and the wall of the lift. Grey gave him a huff by way of greeting, and Harry bobbed his head in return as the lift doors clanged shut.

 

When the lift stilled, the cheery woman’s voice announced “ _Level two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement_ …” and Harry wrestled his way out of the lift, clamping his satchel to his side for fear of it being torn off. He walked towards the bullpen, straightening his jacket, when he saw a familiar figure slip through the oak doors, heading his way.

 

“Morning, Malfoy!” Harry called, trying to sound sincerely cheerful, but the figure at the end of the hallway seemed to flinch and go still, like prey hearing the snap of a twig in the distance. Malfoy looked up ever so slightly as Harry approached, and he seemed to relax a fraction, but not entirely.

 

“Potter,” Malfoy replied in greeting as Harry drew near. His hair was tied back today, a small knot at the nape of his neck, and the whisps that fell loose framed his face to give him an ethereal look. Harry looked away before he said anything he would later regret.

 

“Did you have a good evening?” he asked, looking down at the floor, scuffing the heel of a boot against the polished wooden floor. He glanced up to see Malfoy studying him, obviously assessing how to reply.

 

“It was fine. Yourself?” Malfoy asked in reply, and Harry bobbed his head.

 

“Fine as well.” And then they both fell silent. Malfoy shifted his weight from one foot to the other, before clearing his throat.

 

“I’d best get on,” he said and before Harry could reply, Malfoy had walked away down the corridor, his shoulders held stiffly. Harry looked up at the ceiling for a minute, sending a pleading look for guidance or patience or some sort of support skyward, before heading for the bullpen.

 

The day Aurors were trickling in, and Naseem was already sat at his desk. He looked up with a smile as Harry dropped his satchel to the floor and pulled out his chair from underneath his desk.

 

“Morning, Harry!” he said in cheerful greeting, and Harry responded in kind. Naseem wiggled his eyebrows. “Got an extra tub of Reshmi Handi for lunch if you want it?” he asked, and Harry beamed at him. Naseem laughed and patted him on the arm as he sat down. “Fahmida will be happy. She worries about you,” he said, and Harry’s smile faded a bit at the edges. Fahmida Naseem and Molly Weasley shared a fair few traits, and Harry often felt a squirm of guilt whenever he was confronted with them.

 

He glanced up as Malfoy re-entered the bullpen and walked to his desk. Unlike the other Aurors, who waded through the labyrinth of desks, Malfoy skirted around the edges until he could side-step past only a few desks to get to his seat, maybe to avoid as many of his colleagues as possible. Harry frowned a little at the thought.

 

His report from last night was still sat on top of his desk, and he pulled it towards him, unrolling the length of parchment to check through what he had written once more. He fished a quill out of his desk drawer and started to read.

 

It was a few minutes later when he heard footsteps approaching his desk, and he looked up, quill between his teeth, as Malfoy approached him. He looked disarmed for a second, as if the sight of Harry with a quill in his mouth was something of a shock, before his face went carefully neutral again.

 

“The team have brought in some of Piers’ belongings that might be of interest, they’re down in Evidence now. We’ve also received a list of known Death Eater associates currently living in Blackpool, we should go and speak to them,” he said, and Thatcher, who sat behind Harry, leaned back in her seat.

 

“You got yer Da’s address book then?” she said lazily to Malfoy, and a few Aurors around them laughed. Malfoy stiffened but his face remained blank. Harry ignored the snickers around them, and just kept his eyes carefully trained on Malfoy’s face.

 

“Let me finish checking this over, and then we’ll head out. Five minutes?” Harry suggested and Malfoy gave him a curt nod, before disappearing back to his desk, his head ducked low.

 

“I dunno how ye can stand it, Po’er,” Thatcher said, twisting her thick auburn plait around her hand. She had been a Beater on the Hufflepuff team for Harry’s first year before leaving Hogwarts, and while Harry found her pleasant enough, he had never seen the truly friendly side of her that he associated with Hufflepuffs. “Being partnered with _that_ ,” she continued, jerking her chin in Malfoy’s direction. Harry carefully said nothing.

 

True, his first day as Malfoy’s partner hadn’t been smooth by any standards, but Harry felt reluctant to join in the derisive talk. He usually kept his mouth shut when it came to Malfoy, purely because most people got their information from the unauthorised biography, and he didn’t want to feed into it, but neither did he want to waste the energy correcting their assumptions.  

 

He heard Thatcher turn back to her desk and the rest of the surrounding Aurors lost interest not a minute after. He scratched his quill across his report, not really paying attention to what he was doing, until he stood up a minute later and picked up his wand to tap it against the report, drying the ink instantly. He rolled it up and then took off for Malfoy’s desk, keeping his gaze focused ahead rather than looking around him.

 

“Here’s my report from yesterday,” he said once he reached Malfoy’s corner, brandishing his rolled up parchment. Malfoy looked up from his own report and cast a critical eye over Harry before snatching the parchment off him and tucking it in his post tray before rising to stand. Like yesterday, Harry took a second to admire Malfoy’s height, before looking away quickly. “We should get down to the Apparition point. Do you have the list of contacts?” Harry asked, but Malfoy was already walking away, so Harry had to jog to catch up to him.

 

They made their way in silence down to the Apparition point, Harry choking on his attempts to make conversation, mulling on what had happened with Thatcher. He thought back on his interactions with other Aurors, and he had a small epiphany - if Malfoy had ever been brought up in conversation previously, it was often for someone to say something scathing. A snide remark about his family, or his crimes, littered any conversation surrounding him. And Harry was just as guilty as the rest of them.

 

With this in mind, Harry stopped Malfoy with a hand on his arm just as they were about to step into the small Apparition room. Malfoy looked at his hand and then looked at Harry, his grey eyes piercing.

 

“Malfoy, I just wanted to say - I’m sorry about what the others said to you earlier,” Harry said, keeping his voice even and low. Malfoy continued to look at him. Harry swallowed, and licked his suddenly dry lips. “And for what I’ve said previously. I’ll do my best to -,”

 

“What, Potter? Be nice? Be kind? Not put your foot in your mouth so much?” Malfoy snapped, and Harry let go of his arm in alarm. He frowned.

 

“Not be so much of an arse,” he offered and Malfoy gave him a critical look before marching into the Apparition room. Harry followed him, stepping into the room to see Malfoy step onto the dais. He stood, giving a Harry a keen look that made his skin break out in goosebumps, before turning on his heel and Disapparating. Harry climbed onto the dais and took a second to breath before following suit.

 

**{#}**

 

The weather conditions had not improved in Blackpool. It was, in fact, even more grim than the day before, because now the sea mist had crept onto the promenade itself, casting the seafront into a thick fog, not unlike the one Dementors created. Harry shivered and turned up the jacket of his collar as Malfoy scanned the list of associates that he held in front of him.

 

“Thankfully all of our known associates live within a road or two of each other. We don’t have much to go on aside from addresses though,” Malfoy said, folding the parchment up and setting off in a stride further into the city. Harry hurried along after him.

 

As Malfoy had the list, it was all Harry could do to keep up with him. They paused after a 10 minute walk outside a tall red-bricked townhouse, and Malfoy squinted at the number on the door to check they were at the right address before nodding, more to himself than Harry, and walking up to the front door, rapping on it smartly.

 

There was a pause, and the bark of a dog from inside the house, and then the door cracked open, to reveal a grey-skinned old man, who peered at them with bleary eyes.

 

“Whatchu want?" he asked with a gravelly voice, and Malfoy gave him a tight smile.

 

“Good morning Sir, I’m with the Auror Department, Investigative division,” he said by way of introduction. The wrinkles on the man’s face deepened further, if that was possible, as he frowned. “My name is Draco Malfoy, this is my partner, Harry Potter-,”

 

“I know who y’are,” the man said sharply, cutting him off. Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “Whatchu knocking round ‘ere for? We’ve done nothing wrong,” he continued, and Harry stepped forward, crowding into Malfoy’s space a little.

 

“We’re not here to question you, Sir. We just wanted to ask if you knew anything about Sunday night's events? A recently released Death Eater, Piers Braith, was killed on the beach overnight,” he said, trying to add a tone of friendliness to his voice. People often reacted one of two ways when Harry was asking them questions - they either clammed up or started rambling. The gentleman at the door appeared to be going in the ‘clam up’ direction.

 

“I got nothing to tell you,” the man said, and then he shut the door on them. Harry had been right.

 

Malfoy turned around sharply, and they were almost nose-to-nose, Malfoy looking down while Harry looked up. There was a beat, a moment of awkwardness, before Malfoy stepped back and Harry exhaled slowly.

 

“That was a waste of time,” he said, and Malfoy cast him a look over his shoulder as he headed back to the pavement.

 

“Actually, it was rather enlightening. If they’re all like that, we should be done in no time,” Malfoy said, deadpan, and then he began walking further down the road. Harry gaped after him.

 

“Was that a joke? Are you telling jokes now?” he exclaimed, hurrying after him, but Malfoy did not stop or reply.

 

Malfoy had been right, in his own way. All the doors they knocked on were shut on them not two minutes later, and Harry was perfectly clear as to why. Either the occupants hated him, for being the Boy Who Lived and in their eyes damning their relatives to Azkaban, or they hated Malfoy, who they saw as a traitor. One man had gone to far as to spit at the floor by Malfoy’s feet, before slamming the door on them.

 

“Well then,” Malfoy said, stepping back from the patch of spit on the dusty doormat he had been standing on. Harry’s wand was in his hand, and he was about to send a Sticky Door jinx, but Malfoy put a hand on his arm and forcibly pushed his wand down. “No point in doing that, Potter. I don’t think it’d make us any friends around here,” he said, and Harry scowled.

 

“That was unnecessarily rude, what he did,” he protested, but Malfoy ignored him and moved on to the next address. Harry sent the Sticky Door jinx anyway as they left, turning to give the twitchy lounge curtains a glare as they continued up the road.

 

The last address on their list was the furthest away. The house was set back from the road, which was obviously very affluent judging by the large and expensive cars parked in the surrounding driveways. This house appeared to be the bad house on a good road though, as it was clearly uncared for. The front lawn was dead, overgrown, and dead again, and the paint on the walls and exterior window trims was sun-speckled and peeling. The windows were thick with a layer of grime, and Harry frowned at the stack of rusted cauldrons by the front door.

 

Malfoy raised an eyebrow at Harry, obviously noting the state of the place, but he continued up the gravel driveway and knocked on the front door. There was a pause, and then the door opened.

 

A young woman, probably not a year older than them by the look of her, stood in the doorway. She was pale, a sun-deprived sort of pale, and her eyes were a dark brown, almost black. Her hair was pale, nearly white, and fell to her waist in tangles and knots. Harry felt a pang of pity for her, for she looked very neglected.

 

“Yes?” she asked in a sweet lilting voice. She had an accent, like the words caught on the corners of her mouth as she spoke.

 

“Good morning Ma’am, my name is Draco Malfoy and this is my partner Harry Potter. We’re with the Auror Department, Investigative Division,” Malfoy said, his speech faster than it had been earlier, as he had got used to rushing to introduce them before the door was slammed in their faces. This woman, though, blinked and continued to look at them from her doorway.

 

“I’m Isla,” she introduced herself, and the way she said her name was like it was almost a song, her voice lifted and fell as she said it. “Isla Yaxley,” she added and Harry saw from the corner of his eye Malfoy’s eyebrows jerk upwards in surprise.

 

“Are you related to the late Corban Yaxley?” Malfoy asked, and Harry pictured the large blond Death Eater who had chased them through the Ministry of Magic during that final year. Isla nodded her head, a small bob, and she glanced away.

 

“He was my husband,” she told them quietly, and Malfoy’s eyebrows jerked upwards again. Harry felt his own do the same.

 

“I wasn’t aware he was married,” Malfoy blurted out, and Isla turned her head slightly to look at him, frowning again. Harry frowned at Malfoy, who gave him a small shake of the head, as if to say he would tell him later.

 

“It was kept very quiet,” she said in a low murmur and Malfoy gave her a searching look. She looked back at him passively.

 

“We’re in the area asking the locals about the attack on the beach on Sunday night? Do you have any information regarding it?” he asked and Isla gave him a frightened look.

 

“Someone was hurt?” she asked, and Malfoy gave her a confused look. The _Daily Prophet_ had ended up putting an article in about the murder, though with a scathing sentence letting the reader know the Auror department had yet to release an official statement.  

 

“Yes, Ma’am,” Harry said, and Isla turned her attention to him. He cleared his throat. “A man named Piers Braith was killed. His death is currently under investigation by the Auror department,” he continued and a shocked expression came over Isla’s face.

 

“How terrible,” she said quietly, her one of her hands drifting away from the doorway to cover her mouth. Her gaze drifted away, into the middle distance, and Harry noticed that her fingernails had ripped ends. He made a mental note of it to ask about later.

 

“Do you mind if we come in for a minute? Just to ask a few more questions?” Malfoy asked, jerking his head towards the door. Isla’s gaze snapped to him and she lowered her hand, backing away from the door and pulling it open as she nodded slowly. Malfoy stepped inside the door and Harry followed, giving her a small smile as he crossed the threshold.

 

It was like there was a wall of a smell just inside the house. It reeked of fish. Harry resisted the urge to cover his face with his sleeve, and with a glance at Malfoy, he could see that he was trying to avoid doing the same. Isla shut the door behind them, and then made her way further down the hallway, slipping into a room just down from the front door.

 

Inside, the house was as filthy as the outside. The floor beside the door was strewn with Muggle junk mail promising half-price pizzas and fresh Indian food. Another pile of parchment was placed on a small table just next to the coat rack, which itself was hung with dust-covered cloaks.

 

Harry followed Malfoy and Isla into a dingy living room. A musty sofa and armchair were set at angles to what had previously been a coffee table, but had in the intervening years become a dumping ground for various pieces of junk until it was piled high. Isla sat on the armchair, her back straight, her expression cautious. Harry and Malfoy took the sofa, though Harry could see Malfoy cringe slightly at the puff of dust that rose up around them as they sat down.

 

“Did you see anything strange or unusual on Sunday night?” Malfoy asked, and Isla blinked at him.

 

“I was here at home. I’m afraid I don’t leave much,” she said, and Harry could believe it. This house would have made Aunt Petunia faint.

 

“Hear anything, then? Any strange noises from the neighbours?” he asked, picking up on Malfoy’s line of questioning. Isla turned her gaze to him, and she shook her head.

 

“No, nothing,” she said with an apologetic smile, and Harry nodded. Her accent was strange to him, and he couldn’t help himself but to ask the next question.

 

“Where are you from, Mrs Yaxley?” he asked, and she gave him a bemused look.

 

“Faroe Islands. And please, call me Isla,” she told them politely, twisting her hands around in her lap. The movement was continuous and obviously subconscious, as she didn’t seem to notice doing it herself.

 

“This house was your husband's?” he asked, trying a different tactic. Isla bobbed her head.

 

“I believe it was his family’s home before he inherited it,” she said, her accent catching at her mouth again.

 

“And you weren’t asked for testimony after the War?” Harry asked, and Isla raised her eyebrows but shook her head. Next to him, Malfoy turned his head, and Harry could feel the glare boring into the side of his face.

 

“I had not been married long before my husband died. The Ministry sent a witch to ask me a few questions, but nothing else came of it. I was unaware of his actions,” she said, and Harry frowned, drawing his eyebrows together. He leaned forward on the sofa, curious. Malfoy made a small motion, as if to grab onto Harry, to stop him.

 

“Unaware? When your husband was one of the highest ranking Death Eaters in the country at the time?” he pressed and Isla’s nostrils flared. It was almost like she was smelling the air - for what, though?

 

“I stayed at home. I never knew-,” she started but she stopped when Malfoy rose suddenly to his feet, effectively cutting him off.

 

“Thank you for your time, Mrs Yaxley. If you think of anything, please send an Owl to the Auror department. Feel free to address it for my attention,” he said, and then he glared at Harry, eyes narrowed, until Harry stood and said his goodbyes too. Isla watched them from the doorway into the living room as Malfoy practically stalked Harry out of the house, the door shutting behind them.

 

“Why-,” Harry started to stay, but Malfoy rounded on him, jabbing a finger into his chest.

 

“She was not on trial for her husband’s actions,” he snarled, a high flush on his cheeks, his eyes bright. Harry took a step back, but Malfoy followed him. “That was uncalled for, unnecessary questioning,” he continued, his voice growing louder. Harry held up his hands.

 

“She might have known something! She might have known your Father!” he exclaimed back, and he knew as soon as the words left his mouth that it was the wrong thing to say. Malfoy stepped back, his eyes nearly feverishly bright and then he turned on his heel and disappeared with a _pop_. Harry made a noise of frustration, a snarl of his own, and ran a hand through his hair angrily before turning on the spot too and Disapparating.

 

**{#}**

 

Harry didn’t say a word of greeting to anyone as he reappeared back in the Ministry. He felt like a spitting snake, like he was coiled tightly and defensively. He stomped into an empty lift and slammed the grill shut, causing the lift voice to complain “ _Not so hard, please!_ ”. He ignored it and jabbed his thumb into the number 2, glaring up at the memos that fluttered overhead.

 

Once on the correct floor, he flung open the grill and stormed back into the bullpen, flinging himself down at his desk. Naseem gave him an odd look out of the corner of his eyes, but said nothing, pointedly going back to his paperwork. Harry huffed and twisted in his chair, feeling anger gnawing on his insides. And shame, too.

 

He knew it had been unnecessary to question Isla Yaxley about her husband. He was not the case in question, though Yaxley was still an enigma. His body had never been located, and while he had been declared dead by the Wizengamot a little over two years ago, some of the public were not entirely convinced he hadn’t just gone to ground.

 

And then to reference Malfoy’s Father - there went his hopes of not putting his foot in his mouth so much.

 

“Malfoy pissed you off?” Robson said from his desk, and Harry just looked at him. Robson shrugged one broad shoulder, scribbling something down on a report laid out in front of him. “I don’t know how you’re going to cope, mate. Partnering you up with one of _them_ -,” he started, but then the Field division Head, Langley, called his name and he stood and left his desk.

 

Harry stared after him. ‘ _One of them_ ’? Did Robson mean a Death Eater? Where he had, just a minute ago, been furious at Malfoy for getting angry at him, he now found himself growing annoyed at Robson. Malfoy was decent at his job, and why should anything else matter?

 

Harry turned to look at the corner where Malfoy usually sat, and found it to be empty. He frowned, and thought about asking Lynch where Malfoy had gone off to, but thought better of it. He turned to face his desk again and pulled a fresh roll of parchment towards him, intent on writing up his notes from this morning.

 

Though he checked throughout the day, Malfoy’s desk remained empty.

 

In between writing snippets of his report, Harry read from the _Daily Prophet_. The front page covered the Weasley Wizard Wheezes success after opening their first shop on Jackson Street, the New York equivalent to Diagon Alley located near Times Square, page 2 was detailing the breakdown of Celestina Warbeck’s third (fourth?) marriage, and page 3 - Harry felt like someone had just squeezed all the air out of his lungs.

 

Moving pictures showed a slim beautiful woman, with long hair, walking out of Quality Quidditch Supplies, hand-in-hand with a tall, lean man with a beak-like nose, his dark hair close cropped. Harry would know both of them anywhere - Ginny Weasley and Viktor Krum.

 

It took everything in his power not to set fire to the paper right there at his desk. As it was, his grip on the newspaper tightened so much that he could feel his fingers digging in. He scanned the article.

 

‘ _Daily Prophet - November 2nd 2004 - Entertainment & Sports _

_Seeking her heart? Renowned Holyhead Harpies Chaser, Ginny Weasley (23) and Bulgarian Bon-Bon, Viktor Krum (28), were spotted cosying up following a quick stop at our favourite Quidditch supply shop. Krum, Seeker for the Bulgarian national team and currently playing for the Sofia Simargls, has been rumoured to have been traded to the Montrose Magpies for a record-breaking 1.5 million Galleons - and that’s not the only rumour! Whispers have it that Weasley, famed sister to owners of Weasley Wizard Wheezes, George (26) and Ron (24), recently split from longtime beau and Boy-Who-Lived, Harry Potter (24) following yet another injury on the job. Could it possibly be that these two Quidditch stars have crossed broomhandles at one point or another?’_

 

He couldn’t read the rest. He felt nauseous and overcome with fury at the same time. She had told him, repeatedly, that there was nothing between her and Viktor, that she was just talking shop, that she was giving advice on his potential move to Britain. And he had believed her, or he had wanted to, so desperately.

 

From the moving pictures, Harry recognised the smile Ginny gave Krum. The upturn of one corner of her mouth, her fluttering lashes. She used to give him that smile.

 

Folding the paper roughly, Harry shoved it into his satchel and stood up. The bullpen was quiet again, evening drawing in, and so the noises as he slammed around, picking up his jacket and dimming his desk light, caused the few in to look up and over at him.

 

The whispers followed him all the way to the lift.

 

**{#}**

 

Harry decided to take the tube back home that evening, grateful for the press of bodies and a moment to blend into the crowd. When the train slowed to a stop at Highbury & Islington station, he got out and struck out for Grimmauld Place.

 

The sun had set an hour or so before, and so the streets were cool and dark. The ground had a thin layer of frost, which crunched underfoot as he cut through the small patch of greenery in the middle of Grimmauld Place, and it was the responding crunch which made him look up.

 

Ginny watched him from underneath an old tree which stood next to the other gate for the park, opposite number 12. Her red hair was down around her shoulders, and her chin was covered by a thick knitted scarf, probably a gift from Mrs Weasley, but her eyes were visible. She looked tired.

 

“Hello Harry,” she said, a bit awkwardly as he stopped and stared at her, a few metres away. What he wouldn’t give to keep walking, to slam the door of Grimmauld Place in her face, and yet another part of him wanted to hug her, to hold her close. It was a very small part, he was glad to say.

 

“Ginny,” he said curtly, and she gave him a tight smile. “How can I help?” he asked, and he started walking again, pulling his wand out of his jacket in preparation for the front doors wards.

 

“I just wanted to come and get some things,” she said mildly, following him up the front steps. He glanced back at her, and she was pale in the dim light from the streetlamp.

 

“You could have owled first,” he said, sounding petulant even to himself, and Ginny gave a small nod.

 

“I could’ve,” she agreed and there was a beat of silence while he tapped his wand against the front door, and it creaked open. He pushed the door and stepped inside, standing back to let Ginny in after him. “I don’t think you would’ve let me in if you had advance warning, though,” she added, and Harry did not respond. Truthfully, he probably would’ve pretended to not be home if she had set him an owl.

 

She dropped her handbag to the floor, before kicking off her boots and shucking her coat. Harry resisted the urge to pick her handbag up, because they’d had numerous fights over Ginny leaving it by the front door before, especially after Harry had tripped over it a few times. “It’s always there!” Ginny had said once, putting drops of the essence of dittany on the cut on his chin, which was the result of tripping face-first into the front door. “I don’t know why you never remember,” she had continued, and Harry had grit his teeth and said nothing.

 

“I’ll leave you to grab your things,” Harry told her, his voice painfully even, his tone civil, and Ginny gave a quick nod and headed up the stairs two at a time, not looking back. Harry took off for the kitchen, craving a Firewhisky all of a sudden.

 

Kreacher was in there, stirring a pot of stew on the great Aga. He looked over his thin shoulder as Harry entered, before turning back to the pot.

 

“Dinner is not yet ready, Master Harry. Kreacher thinks it will be another 10 minutes,” he croaked, and Harry nodded, not really hearing what he had said. He rounded the long table and went for the wooden cabinet opposite the door and opened its doors, checking its contents.

 

“Where’s the Firewhisky, Kreacher?” he asked, and Kreacher turned around sharply, wooden spoon poised dangerously in his hand.

 

“Why is Master Harry wanting the Firewhisky?” he asked suspiciously, and Harry glared at him, shutting the cabinet doors forcefully.

 

“Because Miss Ginny just came to get some things and Master Harry doesn’t want to be fucking sober for it,” he snapped back, and Kreacher gave him an affronted, albeit sympathetic, look.

 

“Master can have Firewhisky after his dinner,” he replied firmly, and Harry resisted the urge to throw something at the Elf. He glared at him instead and then sat down at the table, leaning over and resting his chin on his crossed arms. Kreacher sniffed, and Harry looked at him. “Will Miss Ginny be staying for dinner?” the Elf said politely, and Harry didn’t reply, instead sliding his gaze to stare at the kitchen doorway. Kreacher went back to the strew without another word.

 

Ginny appeared in the hallway within 10 minutes. A pair of cardboard boxes, obviously loaded with her things, drifted down the stairs behind her and settled themselves down by the front door. Harry lifted his head as Ginny stepped into the kitchen, watching as she turned her head and gave Kreacher a small smile.

 

“Hello Kreacher,” she said kindly, and the Elf bowed to her, his wooden spoon still clutched in his hand. She turned her gaze back to Harry, and tucked a loose lock of hair behind her ear. “Well, I’ve got everything I needed,” she said and Harry nodded stiffly. She studied him for a minute, biting the inside of her cheek as she did so, before stepping further into the kitchen and pulling out the chair opposite Harry, sitting down before he could protest.

 

“What?” he asked her, snapped at her really, and Ginny sighed. She crossed her arms in front of her and rested them on the scrubbed wooden table, mirroring Harry’s own body language. It was an Auror technique, used to get witnesses to open up to them. Harry wasn’t going to fall for it.

 

“I don’t like this,” Ginny said quietly, and Harry scoffed. She scowled at him. “No, I really don’t, Harry. Mum was so upset when you said you wouldn’t be over for Sunday lunch, and Dad’s said you’ve avoided him at the Ministry,”

 

Harry hadn’t seen Arthur Weasley in order to avoid him, but that wasn’t worth pointing out. Harry looked up at the ceiling before speaking again.

 

“I don’t want to be around you right now,” he said carefully, his voice low, and Ginny huffed in annoyance.

 

“This split was a long time coming, Harry, you can’t tell me it was a surprise!” she snapped at him, her voice rising. Harry’s gaze snapped to her, and his eyebrows shot up.

 

“Hell yes it was!” he said back, his voice also rising. He sat up straighter in his seat and clenched his hands in the fabric of his jumper. “I came home from St Mungos to find your bags packed and you halfway out the door with Viktor bloody Krum-,”

 

“He’s a friend Harry, don’t start that again!” Ginny practically snarled, and Harry wandlessly summoned the _Daily Prophet_ from this morning from his bag, catching it and slapping it down in front of her. She barely glanced at the paper before clenching her jaw defiantly.

 

“I read the fucking paper Ginny, I know what it says on page 3,” he shouted at her, and Ginny glared at him.

 

“You’ll believe Orla Quirke over me?” she said, her voice a deadly calm. Harry knew this as a warning sign from Mrs Weasley - this was the calm before the storm, the moment of quiet before an explosion. He plowed on.

 

“I bloody well will, because she’s not lied to me about late-night Floos before!” he replied, and behind Ginny a wine glass on a shelf shattered - Kreacher didn’t even look, and snapped his long fingers, the wine glass reforming and settling back on the shelf again.

 

Ginny gave him a long, cold look before getting to her feet. “Fuck you, Harry. After _all_ the shit you’ve put me through, seriously, _fuck you_ ,” she said to him, her voice so sharp and venomous that it felt like a slap. She spun on her heel and stormed out of the kitchen, slamming the door behind her. Harry heard her open the front door and slam it shut a few minutes later, and he settled back into his wooden seat, stretching his arms out in front of him, digging his nails into the wood.

 

“Will Sir care for his stew now?” Kreacher asked from the stove, and Harry kept his eyes on the closed kitchen door.

 

“Fine,” he ground out, knowing that the Elf wouldn’t let him drink until he’d at least eaten. As the bowl landed in front of him, Harry dug his spoon in and practically inhaled it, even though it was piping hot and searing the roof of his mouth.

 

He finished the last spoonful and let the spoon land in the bowl with a _clang_ , standing up and kicking back his chair. He stormed around the table and threw open the kitchen door. The hallway was empty, the front door closed, and Ginny’s boxes had seemingly followed her out the door.

 

“I’ll take my Firewhisky in the library,” he shouted back to the Elf, and then he stomped upstairs and threw himself onto the sofa in the library, staring moodily at the fire until Kreacher came in, a tray with Firewhisky, tumbler and ice following next to him. Harry dismissed him curtly, and poured himself a generous measure, watching the fire.

 

It hurt to think about, but he wasn’t nearly as blameless as he wanted to be for the failing of his and Ginny’s relationship. He had been distant for a year, probably more. It had happened after - well, after that night.

Harry had usually gone to the Auror gym on Monday and Wednesday nights. The gym itself was similar to a Muggle one - there were weight machines, free weights, and cardio equipment grouped together in various areas, with a mat section in front of some mirrors (unlike Muggle gyms, these mirrors usually gave encouragement by various forms of wolf-whistling and cat-calling). But this particular week, Harry had to go to the gym on Tuesday evening instead, owing to the fact he had two Ministry dinners to attend on his usual nights. He had expected the gym to be quiet, if not empty, and upon his first glance it was - but then the sound of a weight being lifted caused Harry to stop a look.

 

Malfoy was standing in front of the mirrors, barbells held tightly in his hands. He was lifting them, drawing the weights up and into his body and then over his head, and Harry could see the muscles in his arms and back rippling and tensing with each movement. He had been there for a while, for there was a pink flush to his skin and a light sheen of sweat made his skin look dewy. He was shirtless, a pair of regulation gym shorts usually worn during training slung low on his hips, and his hair was roughly tied back at the base of his skull.

 

He hadn't noticed Harry. Malfoy’s concentration was elsewhere, his breathing focussed, inhaling and exhaling with each rise and fall of the weights. And Harry was entranced.

 

He had thought, for a while, that he might not be entirely straight. He had always found Ginny attractive, as he had with Cho, but during his Auror training, he had noticed his gaze linger that bit longer on his fellow male trainees during the post-gym shower. How Murray and Laing, two trainees who had been the year above at Hogwarts and had spent the intervening year in hiding, were both broad-shouldered and muscular, how their jaws were strong and their eyelashes long. Harry had let his gaze linger a little bit too long once and ended up making up a question about Murray’s gym routine to avoid further interrogation.

 

But Malfoy - there was something about him. The way he set Harry’s nerves on edge had, for years, been thought of as a result of their mutual animosity, but now Harry wasn’t so sure. He was convinced now that his obsession with Malfoy as a teenager hadn’t been purely because of his belief Malfoy had been up to something (and he had been, which left Harry feeling very vindicated but sad at the same time). No, Harry could remember lying awake at night, staring up at canopy of his four poster bed and thinking of Malfoy. Of the way he smirked, the way he turned his head to look at the blackboard in Potions, the way he brushed his hair behind his ear as he leaned over his parchment to write notes.

 

 _Misdirected lust_ , a cruel voice had whispered in Harry’s head, and it had sounded awfully like Aunt Petunia. _What kind of freak are you? A wizard, and you like boys?_ and Harry had promptly smothered that voice and turned over to go to sleep. But the thought still lingered.

 

Escaping the gym that night, quietly and quickly so Malfoy didn’t notice him, Harry had rushed home to find Ginny, a potent headiness coursing through his veins. He had found her in the library and had fucked her right there on the floor, both of them panting and writhing in the heat from the fireplace. And when Harry came, it wasn’t to the image of Ginny with her back arched, her red hair around her like some fiery halo, her mouth open in a gasp of pleasure - it was to the memory of muscles working in Malfoy’s back and the sweep of his long, pale eyelashes.

 

Their relationship had started to falter not long after. Harry had withdrawn, in part ashamed over his thoughts, and Ginny, concerned, had not been able to snap him out of it. In her isolation, she had reached out to Viktor Krum after meeting him in a friendly match. And Harry couldn’t blame her, and his anger was more at himself than at her. But it didn’t ease the guilt and elation that followed him everywhere now.

 

Draining his glass of Firewhisky, Harry waved a hand at the fireplace, stoking the flames magically, and then poured himself another glass. He didn’t bother with the ice, and lingered in his thoughts until the Firewhisky bottle was empty and the fire had finally spluttered and died.

 

**{#}**

 

In protest of his drinking habits, Kreacher had taken away his Headache draughts as punishment, and so Harry Flooed directly into the Ministry with a pounding headache pressing into his temples the next morning. He ignored all greetings and made his way to his desk with his head down, slumping into his seat, thankful that both Robson and Naseem were late in that day.

 

He glanced over at Malfoy's desk to find that it was still empty, the papers untouched and the lamp cold. Harry wondered if Malfoy had been in at all since yesterday morning.

 

After fetching himself a cup of strong, sweet tea, Harry pulled his report notes from the day before over and studied them. None of the witnesses had been helpful, in any sense of the word, but something in Harry’s mind was catching on Isla Yaxley. Ripping off a corner of parchment, he scribbled down her name and stood from his desk, leaving the bullpen behind and heading for the lifts.

 

The Department of Magical Records (Births, Deaths and Marriages), was on Level Eight, and unlike all other departments, which were divided into offices and then into sub-offices, the lift opened onto what looked like a large, cavernous library, with a helpdesk at the front.

 

A perky looking witch with tightly curled brown hair and cat-eye glasses smiled at Harry from behind the helpdesk as he approached.

 

“Auror Potter! How can we help?” she chirped at him and Harry winced a little, his headache still pounding away. The witch’s smile didn’t falter.

 

“Good morning. Uh, I’m looking for some information on this witch,” he said, handing over the corner of parchment. The witch took it off him, and he could see her hands were covered in thick, ropey scars. Harry caught his gaze lingering over them, and the witch withdrew her hands quickly, her smile slipping.

 

“I was at the Battle of Hogwarts. Caught a _Uro_ hex from a Death Eater. Madame Pomfrey was a bit too late with the dittany,” she said, and Harry’s reply caught in his throat for a second. He met them occasionally, survivors of the final battle at Hogwarts, and they often shared their stories, hoping in some way to alleviate their trauma by sharing it, but often enough it made Harry want to run from the room. There was nothing more he wanted to do than forget that terrible night some days.

 

He swallowed and his throat audibly clicked with the effort. “Thank you,” he said quietly and she gave him another smile, though this one was a touch more watery than the last.

 

“Why don’t you take a seat Auror Potter, and I’ll fetch what we have for you?” she suggested, gesturing at one of the tables set in an alcove just behind the desk. Harry nodded and dropped into the first available seat while she disappeared into the library, the aisles and shelves swallowing her whole.

 

While she was gone, Harry thought. Or rather, he tried not to. If he thought too long about the Battle of Hogwarts, he would have nightmares that night. Some images were burned into his brain, and when they came to the forefront again, he couldn’t shake them. Fred, eyes glassy and unseeing, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, Percy’s stricken face over him, hands shaking as he held onto his dead brother’s robes. Lupin and Tonks, lying side-by-side, mouths slack, dust and soot and blood on their hands and faces. And the terrible scream from McGonagall when she thought he was dead, like someone had ripped out her heart.

 

Harry pressed a shaking hand to his mouth and tried to push the nausea away. He tried to tell himself it was the hangover, but the smell of blood and fire was lingering in the air, imagined by him, and it was too hard to shake.

 

Hermione had tried once to get him to go and see a therapist, a post-War counsellor. She was a Squib, Hermione had said, and had worked with both Muggle war veterans and retired Aurors before, so she would keep his confidence. But Harry had ignored the suggestion, and ignored any future attempts to try to suggest it. He dealt with his trauma in his own way - by shutting down completely. By drinking and falling asleep on the sofa in the library, still unused to a warm soft bed after these years of luxury, half-convinced it would all be ripped away again in a heartbeat.

 

He took a deep breath, tried to bring himself back into the present, focusing on his breathing like a Muggle book had once told him to do, and he was mostly back to himself when the witch brought a small pile of papers over to him, a small smile on her face.

 

“This is all we have I’m afraid,” she said, putting the papers down in front of him. He reached for them but she made a small noise which made him stop, his hands outstretched.

 

“Sorry, we require an Archivists charm to be placed before anyone can touch the papers!” she said cheerfully, and Harry saw her scarred hands were covered in shimmering white gloves. He turned his hands towards her and she fished her wand out of her robes and tapped his hands, gloves appearing over them. She gave him another smile and told him she’d be at the desk if he needed her, and then she left, glancing over her shoulder as she went. Harry turned back to the papers and picked up the first once.

 

A marriage certificate, decreeing that Isla Kópakonan married Corban Yaxley on April 15th 1998. Isla hadn’t been lying - they weren’t even married a month before the Battle of Hogwarts. He turned to the next sheaf of paper, which was a hastily signed Will, confirming that all of Yaxley’s estate was to be left to his sole heir, his spouse Isla. It was very blunt and to the point. The next paper was confirmation that estate had been transferred into Isla’s name, and that was the last piece of paper. Harry went through the three documents again, flipping them over to check that nothing else had been written on the reverse, but they revealed nothing more to him than they had on first look.

 

He ran a hand through his hair, fingers snagging like they always did, and stood, walking to the front desk and smiling at the young witch again.

 

“Sorry, are these all you have?" he asked, and she nodded.

 

“I checked the records. We only have these three papers here for her,” she said, and Harry frowned.

 

“Nothing like an immigration record? Or residency status?” he asked and she shook her head.

 

“No, nothing. You could always put a request through to the Norwegian Ministry, though!” she suggested with a sweet smile and Harry gave a half-smile, suppressing the frustration he felt clawing at his chest. He thanked her and spread the documents out on her desk. With a tap of his wand to each, a perfect copy fluttered into existence on top of the original and he collected them up, before piling the originals together and bidding the witch goodbye with a small smile. As he walked through the doors of the Archives, his hands felt suddenly ticklish and he looked to see that the gloves had disappeared.

 

He went back to his desk at the bullpen, sitting down and dropping the duplicate documents on his desk and pulled a sheaf of parchment from the stack in the corner. He tapped it once with his wand and an ‘ _Information Request from a Foreign Ministry_ ’ form appeared on the page, and Harry set to work filling it out. He put his name, his rank, his badge number and all of his own contact details at the top, and then worked his way down, filling in what he could. He made three attempts to spell Isla's maiden name and botched all of them, even when checking against the copied documents, and so left the scribbles as they were on the page, hoping that some poor worker at the Norwegian Ministry would understand what he had meant.

 

He signed the bottom of the form, and then paused, looking at the other signature box. He needed authorisation from a department or division head to request this information, and none of them were particularly likely to sign it off for him if his only explanation for wanting this was ‘ _She’s the widow of a Death Eater_ ’. There were plenty of Death Eater widows, but Harry had never requested any information about any of them before.

 

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, letting his glasses slip down as he did so. He snuck a glance at Malfoy's desk and saw it was as empty as ever, which frustrated him more. Where _was_ Malfoy? Had Harry really hit such a nerve that he had decided to hide at home for the day?!

 

Frustrated, Harry slapped the information request slip onto the top of his still tutting pile of files, and stood up. He made a split-second decision to head to the Forensics Department, to check if there were any new revelations. Winding his way out of the back of the bullpen, he followed the corridor down past Arthur Weasley’s office (though Harry did pause for a second to check if he could hear him inside), before reaching the last door at the end of the corridor and opening it up.

 

Stepping through the threshold, Harry felt a jerk, a sharp tug like a hook behind his navel, and then he was stepping into the clean white tiled room that was the Forensics Lab. The lab itself was buried in the bowels of the SIS headquarters, and the Portkey doorway had only been added in the last two years. Previously, one had had to navigate the hallowed halls of MI6 and rely on their See Nothing, Hear Nothing approach to get to the lab.

 

A group of goggled and bemused lab assistants looked up at him as he walked a bit further into the room, and he gave them a half-smile and a small wave of the hand as a greeting.

 

“I’m looking for Daphne Greengrass?” he asked, and one of them spoke up.

 

“She’s in the morgue. Second door on the left out that door,” the assistant said, pointing a gloved hand to a white door set in to the next wall along. Harry thanked them and left, conscious of how much Ministry dirt he was potentially spreading throughout the pristine environment.

 

He found the correct door and knocked - a voice called for him to ‘Enter!’ and so he slipped into the room, giving Daphne a small smile as he shut the door behind him.

 

“Oh, it’s you,” she said, sounding disappointed. Her dark hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, and she wore a mask covering her mouth and nose. Although she was wearing a stark white apron over her robes, with two sleeve protectors rolled up to show her forearms, her gloves were disturbingly covered in blood. “What do you want?” she asked, leaning over the large hunk of meat which had once been Piers Braith.

 

“I just wanted to check if you had any updates?” he asked, stepping further into the room. She made a small noise of annoyance and he took a fews steps back, until his back was to the wall.

 

“If I had, I’d be sending a memo over to the Ministry,” she said through her mask. Disdain dripped from every word. “No Draco with you then?” she said, lightly - too lightly, in fact. Harry would place money on the fact that Daphne knew he wouldn’t be at the Ministry today.

 

“Not today, no. He was missing yesterday afternoon and hasn’t come in this morning,” he replied casually, tucking his hands behind his back. He watched Daphne carefully pick at something on the body, siphoning it off into a petri dish. “I think he might be ill. It was very sudden, he just never came back,” he added, and Daphne shot him a withering look.

 

“You know what you did, Potter,” she said, and Harry frowned at her. She rolled her eyes, and went back to the body. “You made a dig at him about his Father. Surely you remember from our school days, the fastest way to get Draco Malfoy angry is to make a dig about his Father. ‘ _My Father_ ’ this and ‘ _My Father_ ’ that - he’s obviously Draco’s weak spot,” she told him, and Harry nodded in agreement.

 

“Do you know Lucius well then?” he asked and Daphne gave him another look over what might have once been Piers’ leg.

 

“I know him as well as I’d care to. He wasn’t a very nice man while we were growing up, and time hasn’t exactly been kind to him,” she said, but her voice was low, gentler, as if she expected these words to travel to Malfoy, wherever he was.

 

“I doubt Azkaban has helped,” Harry said and Daphne stood upright so abruptly Harry thought she had found some evidence. Instead, she pointed a bloodstained gloved finger at him, narrowing her eyes.

 

“ _That_ is exactly what I mean. Draco is perfectly aware of his Father’s shortcomings, Merlin, more than most. He has to live with the consequences of Lucius’ choices, and he is perfectly aware that his Father is in Azkaban. He doesn’t need you reminding him! And, in fact, that’s where he’s been since yesterday,” she said, bending down to the body again. Harry gaped at her.

 

“He’s been visiting his Father?” he asked, and Daphne nodded, though she didn’t look up.

 

“Yes. Once a month, he and his Mother Apparate up there, see Lucius for a highly supervised hour, and then get the ferry back to Edinburgh where they invariably get pissed at a hotel bar. He gets a half day either side off to travel,” she explained, and Harry bobbed his head without saying anything further. Daphne straightened up. “As for our victim, the results aren’t entirely conclusive - just look at the state of him, Merlin - but I believe a majority of the wounds were made by teeth.”

 

“Teeth?!” Harry exclaimed, launching forward from the wall to stride over the body and bend over it. That was a mistake - it reeked. He reared back and slapped a hand over his mouth, retching. Daphne laughed and reached into her apron pocket, pulling out a small bright blue tub. Harry recognised it immediately.

 

“Vicks Vaporub?” he asked, incredulous, and Daphne nodded. He took it from her, tapping it quickly with his wand to get rid of the bloody fingerprints.

 

“The MI6 guys gave us a tip. Rub a little under your nose and it masks all other smells. Put some on,” she suggested, and Harry popped open the lid to dab his finger in the greasy ointment, rubbing it under his nose. He blinked, surprised - the smell that permeated the area around the body faded instantly. He gave Daphne an appreciative look and handed the small pot back. “As I was saying, Potter, yes - teeth. The edges of the wounds, though tough to discern, are ragged in a way consistent with bite marks,” she said and Harry stared at her.

 

“What do you think bit him? You said it couldn’t be a Werewolf at the beach,” he asked, and she nodded a little.

 

“The bites aren’t wide enough for a Werewolf, and besides, they usually don’t, uh, shred their victims in such a way. It’s usually one bite to infect, and then they go on their way. These bites, they were caused by something else,” she said, and Harry frowned at her. She shrugged her shoulders at him. “It’s barely been 24 hours, Potter, let me run some more tests and I’ll let you know,” she told him, and Harry nodded, giving her a quick smile. He stepped away from the body and headed back towards the door. “Potter,” she called after him, and he turned back. She was looking down at the body, a sad smile playing on the corners of her mouth. “Would you like to see how our victim looked in life?” she asked and Harry paused for a minute and then nodded. Daphne fished her wand out of her apron, smearing it with blood from her gloves. She raised her wand and flicked it, and an image appeared in the air, made out of little sparks of light from her wand.

 

Piers Braith had been gaunt-looking, with a head of thick curly dark hair. His nose was long and crooked, he looked as though it had been broken at some point in his life, and his lips were full and pouty, odd looking on his lean face. He was looking out at them sadly, and Harry studied his face until it faded away. He turned to Greengrass, who’s gaze was still fixed on where Piers’ face had been.

 

"Thank you, Daphne. I’ll see myself out,” he said quietly, and he was nearly at the door when she called out to him again.

 

“Potter!” she shouted, and Harry turned to look back at her over his shoulder, his hand resting on the doorknob. She tilted her head a little to the side, eyeing him. “Try better, with Draco. He’s trying to keep his head below the parapet in the Auror department, and he doesn’t need you digging at him as well,” she said and Harry nodded.

 

“I’ll try,” he told her, and with nothing further to say, he left the morgue and headed back for the Ministry.

 

**{#}**

 

After a quick run over to Westminster Tube Station to grab a panini and latte from Caffè Nero, Harry sat at his desk, thinking. What else could attack a man and maul it to death with only it’s teeth? Most creatures would use claws…

 

He pulled a fresh sheaf of parchment towards him and began scribbling out a letter to the only person he knew might have an answer - Hagrid. He hadn’t spoken to the Hogwarts Game Keeper and Care of Magical Creatures professor for some time, he realised with a pang of guilt, and to ask him for help now seemed a bit forced. With that in mind, Harry signed off his letter with an invite to dinner when Hagrid was next free, and then he rolled up the parchment and tapped it with his wand - a burgundy ribbon secured the parchment closed, and denoted it was from the Auror Office too. He put it on his mail tray and it disappeared with a small _pop_ , off to the Ministry Owlery to be posted.

 

With one task checked off his mental list, Harry turned back to the three pieces of paper detailing Isla Yaxley’s life in England thus far. He thought of her, alone in that large and untidy house, and felt a pang of pity. It was clear that she had no other family in England,  and had apparently decided to not return home after her husband's death. All anyone knew of her were the three pieces of parchment spread out before Harry, and that wasn’t much of a life.

 

He glanced up and his gaze automatically fell on Malfoy’s desk, and with a start Harry saw that Malfoy had reappeared while his mind was occupied elsewhere. He looked pale and drawn, and had one elbow on the desk, his hand covering his mouth and chin as he stared at the parchment scroll on his desk. He looked like he had barely slept a wink overnight, and that a slight breeze could send him toppling.

 

Harry felt like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He was relieved to see Malfoy back at his desk, even if he couldn’t explain why. Maybe because it was nice to finally have someone he could speak to about Isla Yaxley’s lack of documents?

 

He stood from his desk and picked up the three sheafs of parchment, before making his way to Malfoy’s desk, trying to suppress the smile on his face. On closer inspection, Malfoy looked worse than Harry imagined - dark purple semi-circles were under his eyes, which looked dulled from their usual steel grey into a colour more like the murky Thames which flowed only a minutes walk away. Harry didn’t slow his approach though, and gave Malfoy a smile when he raised his eyes at Harry's approach.

 

"Potter," Malfoy said, sounding suspicious. He dropped the hand that was balancing his chin to the desk and straightened up, obviously embarrassed to be seen slouching. “Any news?” he asked, glancing at the papers in Harry’s hand. Harry shook his head.

 

“No. I went to see Greengrass this morning, and she said she definitely thought the, uh, wounds were made by a creature, but she didn’t think it was a Werewolf,” Harry said and Malfoy frowned, his pale eyebrows pinching.

 

“I see,” he said, and there was a moment’s silence, as it looked like Malfoy was thinking about this. “And did you find anything else?” he asked, looking back up at Harry, his eyes lingering on the papers still clutched in his hand.

 

“Actually, I went down to the archives to ask about Isla Yaxley, and-,” Harry started, but Malfoy let out of a huff of air through his nose, a sound of annoyance.

 

“Really, Potter?” he said, sounding terse. Harry stared at him, and then put the papers down on Malfoy’s desk, spreading them out so he could see each one clearly.

 

“She only has three documents, Malfoy. A marriage certificate, Yaxley’s Will with her name on it and a decree confirming his property had been signed over to her. Nothing else,” he said, and Malfoy closed his eyes, as if trying to steady himself.

 

“And?” he asked, his voice measured and calm even though he looked like he wanted to hit Harry and it was taking everything in his power not to - his hands were even clenched into fists in his lap.

 

“She should have something more! An immigration record, something from the Norwegian Ministry or our Ministry granting her residency, something! But all we have on her are these three bits of paper,” Harry said, rapping his knuckles against the sheafs. Malfoy opened his eyes, and the steel grey was back, a sharp glint in his gaze. He raised one hand and pointed a finger at Harry, his expression one of barely concealed anger.

 

“I will say this once more, Potter,” Malfoy said, his voice very terse. “Do not, I repeat, _do not_ assume that Isla Yaxley is in any way involved in this case purely because of her marital history. If you drag her through the mud based on the assumption that just because her husband was a terrible person, so is she, so help me Merlin I will have you hauled up in front of a Hearing board, because I will not be dragged down to your level on this.” As Malfoy spoke, he slowly rose to his feet and moved closer to Harry until they were nearly nose to nose and Malfoy was jabbing him in the chest with his finger. Harry gaped at him and when there was no immediate response, Malfoy stepped back and swept away to the kitchen, leaving Harry stunned in his wake.

 

“Got a dressing down, eh, Potter?” Ross called from his desk, and Harry dragged his gaze away from where it had followed Malfoy to the kitchen over to Ross, who was grinning nastily at him. Harry walked over to him, abandoning Isla’s papers on Malfoy’s desk, and frowned down at him.

 

"What's that supposed to mean?” he asked Ross, who shrugged one broad shoulder. He looked pleased with himself, which made Harry worried. It was when his resemblance to Uncle Vernon really started to show.

 

“Well, now you no longer have the old ball-and-chain at home, seems you might have got a new one here,” Ross said, his grin spreading further across his face. Harry felt heat rise on his cheeks and tried to make his body force it away, but to no avail.

 

“I don’t know what you’re implying, Ross,” he said cooly, and Ross gave a hoot of laughter, which caused some of the other Aurors to look up and around at him. Harry held his body still, careful to not give any sign of discomfort. “Malfoy and I have a disagreement about our current investigation, that’s all,” he added, trying to force a casual tone into his voice. Ross clearly didn’t buy it, if his grin was anything to go by.

 

“Malfoy's used his womanly wiles on you, mate,” Ross said, the ‘ _mate_ ’ sounding more like an insult. Harry said nothing, but raised an eyebrow and tilted his head back, trying to look bored. He also mentally filed away this jab at Malfoy, and resolved to pry a bit more to see what would make Ross say this kind of thing.

 

“I’ve still got no clue what you’re saying, Ross. Maybe you got hit with a _Confundus_ while you weren’t paying attention?” Harry suggested lightly, and Naseem snorted behind him. Ross’ grin dimmed a little, and Harry stepped away, heading back to his own desk. He could feel the eyes of the Auror department on him, but no one said anything even as he sat back down at his desk.

 

He pulled a _tsk_ ’ing file over to him and opened it, pretending to be absorbed in what it was saying without actually reading it. He stayed like that for a few minutes, staring at the page but not absorbing the words until he felt a presence at his elbow. He looked up and saw that Malfoy was standing next to his desk, his eyes downcast but his shoulders tense.

 

“I actually asked my Father about Isla Yaxley last night,” he said conversationally, as though he had asked his Father over a nice family dinner rather than in a supervised meeting room with Aurors standing at every corner.

 

“What did he say?” Harry asked, his curiosity rising again. Malfoy raised his gaze and then rolled his eyes at the interested look on Harry’s face.

 

“He said that Yaxley had mentioned he was married, but that no one had actually attended the wedding. And he used to joke that he had ‘ _pulled his wife out of the sea_ ’, whatever that means,” Malfoy said irritably. Harry nodded, mulling the words over in his head.

 

“Thanks for asking, Malfoy,” he said, and Malfoy nodded curtly, before turning on his heel and walking back to his desk, the gazes of the Aurors which had previously been fixed on Harry now following Malfoy instead.

 

**{#}**

 

They received a memo from Greengrass later that afternoon that just confirmed what Harry had already thought - there was nothing more to be gained from examining the body, and it had now been placed in stasis until the investigation was complete, and it could be released back to the victim’s family.

 

Harry found himself frustrated by this news, before reminding himself that they still had all the things removed from Piers’ home down in Evidence, which they hadn’t even touched yet. It was currently being sifted through by the Forensic Wizards for fingerprints and the like, and then it would be released to them for further scrutiny. Harry hoped it would be soon, because it felt like the trail was going cold.

 

As Wednesday afternoon wound down, Harry kept glancing over at Malfoy, who like Harry, seemed to be getting more and more frustrated. He had clenched a fist in his hair and the fine white-blond strands were peeking through his fingers, trailing over them. Harry looked away and found that his mouth had suddenly gone dry.

 

He put away his quill and spare parchment and then shuffled the papers around on his desk, trying to buy himself some thinking time. He wanted to go over and speak to Malfoy, but something was holding him back. Maybe it was the chastising Malfoy gave him earlier, or Ross’ words. He didn’t have to find further reason to wait, because a scroll of parchment popped into existence in his mail tray. Harry raised an eyebrow - that was a quick response. It was bound with a short leather thong, which Harry put to one side as he unfurled the scroll to read Hagrid’s scratched out reply.

 

‘ _Dear Harry,_

 

_Ta very much for your letter. It’s good to hear from you, I’ve been worried. I’m not free during term I’m afraid, but Christmas hols are due to start December 10th, so I can come any time after that. When would suit?_

 

_As for your question, I’m not entirely sure what you’re asking, but here goes! Most animals will attack with claws rather than teeth if provoked, but there are a few whose first instinct is to bite. Acromantulas, of course, Ashwinders, too. Actually, now that I think about it, there’s a fair few that’ll bite… But, if you’re looking for big creatures who could match up to a human, which are native to England, I think your best bet would be either a Selkie or a Quintaped. There’s a colony of Selkies in the Outer Hebrides you could ask, leader is called Lachlan. If you tell him I sent you, he’ll be able to help. His address is below, if you need it._

 

_DO NOT TRY TO FIND THE QUINTAPEDS._

 

_Let me know if you need any more help._

 

_\- Hagrid’_

 

Hagrid’s letter buoyed Harry’s mood following the note from Greengrass. At last, something that illuminated the path they needed to take, even if only faintly. Harry read Hagrid’s note again, taking comfort in the familiarity of his writing, and how he could hear Hagrid’s voice through his words. He was definitely going to invite Hagrid over for dinner during the Christmas break.

 

Harry glanced up to see that Malfoy was standing from his desk, dimming the lamp next to it. He stood, too, and rushed over, catching his thigh on one of the desk edges with a _bang_ , which made Malfoy look up at him.

 

Harry hobbled over, pain catching at his leg, waving Hagrid’s letter at Malfoy.

 

“I might have the creature!” he said and Malfoy stared at him. Harry finally got to Malfoy’s desk and laid Hagrid’s letter on it, pointing. “It could be one of those two,” he said, and Malfoy frowned at the words Hagrid had written.

 

“It won’t be a Quintaped,” he said, and Harry bobbed his head like he agreed. He wasn’t, in honesty, totally sure as to what a Quintaped was. Malfoy looked over at him and rolled his eyes, but there seemed to be a fondness to it this time. “Quintaped’s are confined to an unplottable island somewhere off the coast of Scotland. And they don’t swim, so unless someone’s been smuggling Quintaped’s onto the mainland, there’s no way it could be one of them,”

 

“So it must be a Selkie?” Harry said, and Malfoy shrugged.

 

“It _could_ be a Selkie. They’re not usually violent though, as least not to humans,” Malfoy said, drumming his fingers on the desk. They lapsed into silence, Malfoy thinking and Harry waiting for him to say something. Malfoy cleared his throat and slid the letter back towards Harry. “We’ll pick this up tomorrow. I have a dinner engagement,” he said, and Harry nodded, picking the letter up, rolling it back up loosely.

 

“We need to go through the evidence from Piers’ home as well tomorrow,” he said, and Malfoy nodded. He picked up a satchel, far newer and cleaner than Harry’s old school one, and slung it over his shoulder.

 

“Well, good night Potter,” he said, before stepping past Harry without waiting for a reply. Harry’s gaze followed him out of the room, the scent of sandalwood and sage following him.

 

**{#}**

 

The evidence rooms were as stark and cold as the morgue, especially in the cold light of morning. Forensic Wizards sat perched on high stools in front of benches, examining floating objects from every angle, wands poised as golden nets encircled even more objects. The objects themselves ranged from the mundane, like a kitchen rolling pin, all the way to a telescope which was revolving so steadily the forensic wizard studying it kept having to duck every time it made a full rotation.

 

Harry and Malfoy found themselves stood in front of only two boxes filled with Piers Braith’s things, both of them with a modified Bubble-Head charm around their hands to prevent any contamination of evidence. A very stern looking forensic wizard had made them sign out the boxes in triplicate before letting them sit in a corner of the room and unpack them.

 

The boxes were sparsely filled. There were a total of five shirts, eight books, three quills and one diary, which looked barely used. These were the remnants of a life half-lived, Harry thought, and he remembered his own sparsely decorated bedroom in Grimmauld Place, his empty desk in the bullpen. He shifted a bit, uncomfortable, where he stood.

 

“I’ll have a look through these,” Malfoy said, taking four of the eight books and pushing the rest over to Harry. “You have a look through those,” and then he opened the first book and bent over it, studying the words within. Harry plucked the first book off the pile Malfoy had given him and studied the cover, before rolling his eyes and shoving it under Malfoy’s nose. It was a copy of ‘ _The Boy Who Lived - A Legend Retold’._

 

“A charming read,” Malfoy said easily, and Harry huffed a laugh, bringing the book back towards him.

 

“It’s a terrible book, and you know it,” he said, and Malfoy shrugged one shoulder.

 

"I thought Chapter 11, ‘ _A Missed Friendship_ ’ was quite moving,” he said, casting a sidelong look at Harry, the corners of his mouth quirking up in amusement.

 

“It was ridiculous. Going on about how you cried yourself to sleep over my rejecting your hand, how you were some kind of Saint for Wayward Wizarding Children,” Harry said, running his thumb along the pages of the book, seeing if there was anything scrawled in the margins. Malfoy sniffed daintily, and Harry looked back over to him. “Don’t tell me you actually cried?!” he said, and Malfoy gave him a disgusted look.

 

“Of course I didn’t! But I was… disappointed,” he told Harry, one corner of his mouth twisting downwards. “I had thought for years about what I’d do if I met you. How I’d be your friend. I’m sure everyone who was brought up in the Wizarding world also thought the same, but I - I felt like I had a mission. To help guide you into being the right sort of Wizard,” his voice trailed away and he let out a derisive sort. “I don’t seem to have the best judgement when it comes to that, though,” he added quietly and Harry put the book to one side, letting silence fall over them both.

 

They continued to work in silence, both of them flicking through the meagre selection of literature that Piers Braith had owned. He had apparently been interested in Herbology, if the five botany books were anything to go by, three of which ended up in Harry’s pile and revealed nothing further about their victim.

 

“I’ll look in the diary,” Harry said, being the first to finish his pile of books (Malfoy seemed to get distracted by their content and kept stopping to read paragraphs here and there). The diary itself was slim, with a black leather cover. It was obviously very new, for the gold inlaid year had hardly faded from the front cover. Another reminder of a life cut short.

 

He opened to January and started reading. The pages were blank, none of the dates filled in, until the end of August, when Piers had been released from Azkaban. There were small notes, here and there - ‘ _dinner with mum’_ , _‘parole meeting at 11.00_ ’. The parole meetings were consistently every two weeks, with sparse meetings here and there. Until, on October 31st - _‘Dinner with I’_.

 

Harry knocked his shoulder to Malfoy’s, startling him out of reading another thrilling passage on the various uses of Bubotuber Pus. “What is it?” Malfoy grumbled, and Harry tapped a finger to diary, the modified charm stopping his finger from actually touching the paper. “Dinner with I?” Malfoy said, frowning, taking the diary off Harry and looking at it closer. “Was he particularly bad at grammar?” Malfoy asked, and Harry made a small noise of amusement.

 

“What if ‘I’ is an initial?” he asked, and Malfoy nodded. He flicked to the back of the diary, where a small address book would usually be found, but it was blank. Malfoy ran a hand through his hair, pursing his lips, looking frustrated.

 

“This could well be our only clue as to who the murderer is,” he said quietly, and Harry nodded, leaning in a bit closer. The scent of sandalwood and sage was there again, and Harry let himself enjoy it. It was strangely soothing.

 

“I don’t think there’s anything more to be gained here,” Malfoy said, closing the book in front of him and standing. Harry made a copy of the diary page, and then helped him collect the evidence and place it back into the boxes, before checking it all in with the Forensic Wizard, who made them sign it all in, in triplicate as well.

 

The walk back to the bullpen was quiet as they both thought over what the note in the diary could tell them. In the rest of the diary, Piers was quite consistent with how he listed who he was seeing (though it was usually only his mother), and he typically spelled their full name. To put just an initial seemed strange.

 

“We should ask his Mother if she knows any of his friends who have the initial ‘ _I_ ’,” Harry said, and Malfoy nodded, pushing open the door to the bullpen. They were called over by Lynch the minute they had walked through the door.

 

“Got another one for you, boys,” she called, waving a file in their direction. They walked over to her desk, and Malfoy took the file from her and flipped it open. His eyebrows shot up as he looked at the first piece of parchment, and he passed the file to Harry.

 

“Another one?” he asked Lynch while Harry looked at the file, too. A sketch, similar to the chalkboard image from Monday, was at the front. A ravaged hunk of meat, similar to the remains of Piers Braith but definitely different, was being lapped at by grey waters. Harry looked up at Lynch to see her nod and bend back over the paperwork on her desk.

 

“Greengrass is on site, I imagine you’ll have a summons any second. Take a scarf, boys - it’s cold out.”

 

**{#}**

 

Blackpool was as bleak and miserable as it had been only three days previously, with the added bonus of drizzling rain, and the winter sun already sitting low in the sky. Harry cast an _Impervius_ silently as he and Malfoy trekked down towards the sea, where three white-clad figured were hunched over what looked like a dark lump from this distance. One of the figures stood and waved a hand as they approached - Greengrass.

 

Like Monday, she was covered in protective gear, and again, she pulled her mask down under her chin as they approached.

 

“Malfoy, Potter - can't say I’m pleased to see you,” she said, her voice teasing. Malfoy didn’t reply, just studied the hunk of meat that was sprawled out beneath them. Harry studied it, too, and nearly gagged - one limp hand rested underneath it, its fingers towards the sky. Greengrass followed his gaze. “Yes, this one’s a bit less thorough than the last one. Looks like our perpetrator didn’t get everything,” she said, withdrawing her wand from the sleeve of her robe and waving it in the air. A few parts of the body lit up, and Harry could see more clearly what they were. The hand he had spotted, an elbow, an ear and the lower part of a foot.

 

Harry gagged again, while Malfoy took a few deep, steadying breaths. Greengrass looked back at them with a grin that looked like she was proud of making them show weakness. “It is rather grim, isn’t it?” she said, her tone a bit delighted, and Harry raised an eyebrow at her. She waved a hand at him. “Come now, Potter, one doesn’t get into this job for wanting to keep clean, do they?” she said, gesturing at her protective suit. The lower parts of her legs were stained with blood, sea water and sand.  

 

“How long has it been here?” Malfoy asked, and Greengrass shrugged. She looked down at the body, thinking for a moment.

 

“We can’t confirm time of death until we get them back to the morgue, but I would say overnight. Body was only spotted this morning because a Muggle thought it was some driftwood and came to investigate. We got the Floo hours later though, Follow-Along cocked up,” she said, rolling her eyes, and Harry nodded. He took another glance at the body and cringed.

 

“Any idea of identity yet?” Malfoy continued, and Greengrass turned her gaze back to him. She shook her head.

 

“We’ve recorded the magical signature, so that’s been sent off for analysis. Congratulations boys, you’ve been upgraded to VIP status because Command have officially classed this as a serial killer!” she said, clapping her hands once - a splatter of blood and Merlin knew what else landed on her jumpsuit, but she didn’t seem to notice. Harry and Malfoy exchanged a look. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’d not been informed of that tidbit,” she said knowingly, and Malfoy raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything further. Greengrass seemed to deflate a little bit. “Well, I don’t know if there’s much use of you being here. We’ve traced the blood splatters all the way back to about halfway down the beach, so I don’t know if our killer took the victim out for a midnight stroll before deciding to kill. There’s nothing at all further up the beach,” she said and Harry bobbed his head.

 

“We’d best go have a nose around though, check if anyone heard or saw anything,” he suggested to Malfoy, who nodded once. They thanked Greengrass, who waved them off as she bent down over the body again, and trekked up the beach.

 

“A serial killer,” Harry said in a quiet voice, and Malfoy made a small sound in return. “How does this change our investigation?” he asked, and Malfoy glanced at him, before turning back.

 

“It doesn’t, except we now have to assume the killer will kill again unless we can stop them first,” he said and Harry frowned. He jammed his hands inside his jacket pockets - the _Impervius_ had kept the rain off him but didn’t stop the biting chill.

 

“Has there been a serial killer in recent history?” he asked, and Malfoy huffed something that might have been a laugh.

 

“Unless you count the Dark Lord? No, there hasn’t,” he said and Harry fell silent, thinking. As they made their way further up the beach towards the promenade, he could see the splatters of blood that the forensic team had marked out, and as Greengrass had said, they had started halfway down the beach. And, as they drew closer to the promenade, Harry saw a familiar figure lingering by the steps leading to the beach. He swore.

 

“ _Daily Prophet_ ,” he said to Malfoy, jerking his chin at Parvati Patil, who was swaddled in a thick fuchsia pink coat. Malfoy swore as well, looking exasperated. As they drew nearer, Parvati perked up and elbowed her companion, the photographer who had accompanied her earlier in the week.

 

“Afternoon, boys!” Parvati called cheerily, and Harry scowled.

 

“Go away, Parvati, this is an ongoing investigation,” he said, and she tittered, as though he had said something particularly amusing. A Quick Quotes Quill flitted up beside her, obviously unleashed from her blindingly pink purse.

 

“Does the Auror department have any comment on the rumours that this is the second murder committed by a serial killer?" she asked, the Quick Quotes Quill turning to point directly at Harry. He eyed it distastefully.

 

“No comment,” he said blandly, and Parvati tittered again.

 

“Oh, come on, Harry, you have to give me something. If the public are in danger, they need to know,” she said pleadingly with a little pout, and Malfoy scowled at her.

 

“The Auror department doesn’t do fear-mongering, Patil. We will not comment until our investigation is further under way,” he said, and Parvati rounded on him.

 

“And what to the rumours that it’s your compatriots that are being killed off, Malfoy? Death Eaters and the like? Is your own safety assured?” she asked, the questions phrased innocently enough but her tone like poison. Harry saw Malfoy blanch, and he stepped between them.

 

“ _Enough,_ Parvati. You’ll have your statement tomorrow, but until then, stay out of our way,” he snapped, and she narrowed her eyes at him but then shrugged and backed off, ducking her head to whisper conspiratorially with her photographer. Harry turned to face Malfoy, who was still looking a bit pale.

 

“You’re okay,” he said, reaching out to grip onto Malfoy’s arms just above his elbow. Malfoy reflexively reached up and held onto Harry’s forearms as well, and Harry could feel the heat from his hands pressing into his jacket. “Malfoy, you’re in the Auror department. No one is going to let anything happen to you,” he said and Malfoy looked at him, his eyes wide and a little fearful.

 

“Can you be so sure?” he asked quietly, and Harry hesitated. In that second’s pause, Malfoy stepped away, breaking Harry’s hold on him. He wrapped his arms around himself and the wind whipped his hair around his face. He looked very lost all of a sudden. “She is right. A serial killer is targeting Death Eaters. What if I’m next? Or my mother?” he said and his voice caught at he spoke. Harry studied him for a moment.

 

“Then we’ll have to do what you said. We have to act quickly, to make sure no one else gets hurt.”

 

**{#}**

 

They asked the public around Blackpool if they had seen or heard anything last night, but no one had, so they had headed back to the Ministry. They checked in with Lynch back at the Bullpen, who confirmed that the case had been upgraded to a Priority status, owing to the ‘ _imminent and real threat to the safety of members of the magical community_ ’, as she had told them. This meant that all their testing in the labs was pushed to the front of the queue, and that the body would be put straight in for an autopsy once it reached the Morgue, so an identification was due shortly.

 

“I want this done _quickly_ , boys,” she said, folding her arms over her chest. She fixed them both with stern looks and reminded Harry forcibly of Professor McGonagall. “Quickly and as painlessly as possible. Find this son of a bitch and nail him to the wall,” she spat out the last sentence, and Harry nodded, Malfoy doing the same at his side. Lynch leaned back in her chair, and nodded, more to herself than to them. “Whatever you need, you get. Resources, manpower, I will sign it off if you slap the parchment in front of me. Hell, I’ll even sign a goddamn permission slip to Hogsmeade if it helps, but I want this done,” she finished.

 

They left her desk and trailed back to Malfoy’s, both of them quiet.

 

“The pressure's on, I suppose,” Harry said as they reached the desk. Malfoy sat down heavily in his seat and Harry perched on the desk itself, swinging his legs out in front of him until Malfoy gave him a sharp look and he stopped. “Is there anything we can do until the body comes in?” he asked, and Malfoy shook his head.

 

“Not really. We only looked at Braith’s evidence this morning, so there’s nothing to be gained from looking again this soon,” he said, and Harry nodded. They both went quiet again, thinking to themselves.

 

“If you’re that concerned about your Mother, Malfoy, you could always request a guard?” Harry asked, and Malfoy glanced up at him and then scoffed.

 

“Trust me, Potter, no Auror would willingly volunteer to stand outside the Manor to protect my Mother,” he said, and Harry frowned at him.

 

“Why not? After all, she saved my life,” he said, and Malfoy gave him an incredulous look.

 

“Because the world doesn’t revolve around Harry bloody Potter?” he said drolly, and Harry felt an angry flush rise in his cheeks. He almost pushed himself off the desk and walked away, but Malfoy’s hand fell on his knee and kept him in place - the flush was now for something else. “No, listen,” Malfoy said firmly, and Harry forced his attention off the feeling of Malfoy’s hand on his leg and tried to listen to Malfoy’s words. “My Mother was exonerated by the Ministry thanks to your evidence, which I _am_ grateful for. But, the wider public doesn’t see it that way. They see all the things she did before she saved your life. Nevermind that the Dark Lord forced his way into our home, everyone thinks she opened the door and welcomed him in with tea and cake. Nevermind that she didn’t actually fight in the Battle of Hogwarts, she was seen there and she was seen in Death Eater robes. She will always been seen as the wife of the Death Eater, the mother of a Death Eater and a Death Eater herself, even if she never raised a wand against anyone else. Public sympathy doesn’t extend to my Mother, even if yours does.” He said this all matter-of-factly, and yet there was anger and pain in his eyes. He looked resigned, and Harry felt annoyed by it, but not because of Malfoy - more because of the long memories of the Wizarding World and how it could hold a grudge like it was a sport.

 

“I’m sorry,” Harry said finally, and Malfoy nodded. “We can let your Mother know what we know. She’s smart, she won’t put herself in a dangerous situation if she knows what to expect,” he said, and Malfoy nodded.

 

“I hope so,” he said, taking his hand off Harry’s knee and leaning back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest. Harry looked at the clock on the wall and sighed.

 

“Why don’t we get some lunch? There isn’t much point in sitting around and waiting,” Harry suggested, and Malfoy nodded, rising to stand. Harry pushed himself off the desk and went to his desk to pull out his small bag of coins, which he tucked into his jacket before following Malfoy out of the bullpen. He was aware of the eyes following him and the whispers that started as soon as they were out of sight. But there was no time to pay attention to that now.

 

They had lunch in the same cafeteria that Hermione and Harry usually met in - in fact, he could see Hermione’s bushy hair in the back corner of the cafeteria, the arrogant looking Saul Croaker sitting opposite her, both of them engaged in a heated discussion. It was probably best not to interrupt.

 

A house elf seated them by a false window, and Harry chose Irish Stew for lunch while Malfoy ordered a Club Sandwich from the Elf who served them. They watched her go and then looked at each other. Harry realised that he had never been in a casual situation like lunch with Malfoy before, and he suddenly felt awkward. The silence ticked by painfully until Harry’s gaze fell on an Elf nearby that had familiar, bat-like ears.

 

“Do you remember Dobby?” he blurted out and Malfoy blinked at him, glancing at a house elf that trotted past them, two steaming plates of salmon bobbing along behind him. Malfoy moved in his seat, trying to look relaxed.

 

“The house elf? Yes, why?” he asked, and Harry felt a pinch of grief in his chest.

 

“He died, during the War. He rescued me from your Manor and then died because Bellatrix threw a knife. It caught him in the chest,” he said in a rush, and Malfoy looked pained.

 

“I know. I’m sorry. He was kind to me, Dobby,” he said quietly, and Harry nodded. Malfoy looked up at him and then looked away, obviously uncomfortable. “My Father was strict with me, growing up. But Dobby always brought me sweets from the kitchen and would play with me in the afternoons, if I wasn’t in lessons. He was a good Elf,” he said, and Harry sat up straight, suddenly incensed.

 

“He was a good _person_ ,” he said pointedly, keen for some reason for Malfoy to acknowledge the very real loss of Dobby, and Malfoy nodded quickly in response. Harry deflated a little. “He’s buried near Shell Cottage. We put a proper memorial up after the War, and people leave flowers there, though I always bring socks,” Harry said, a smile quirking at the corners of his mouth. “I think he would have liked it,”

 

“I’d like to go, sometime,” Malfoy said quietly, and Harry nodded, smiling a little.

 

“I think Dobby would have liked that, too,” he replied, and Malfoy gave him a tentative smile. The Elf reappeared with their lunch and though their conversation was quiet and slow as they ate, Harry left feeling like he had got to know Malfoy that bit better.

 

**{#}**

 

A memo from the morgue was flitting around Malfoy’s desk when they got back to the bullpen. Once again, a trail of whispers and stares followed them through the maze of desks, but Harry ignored them and so did Malfoy, seemingly. At his desk, Malfoy snatched the memo out of the air and unfolded it, scanning the words on the page.

 

“Daphne’s managed to get an identification, she wants us to go down to the morgue. Do you want to go now?” he asked Harry, who nodded, and they made their way to the Portkey door, stepping through. Harry cringed at the familiar feeling of the hook behind his navel and stumbled after Malfoy, who stepped lightly through the door like it was a complete ordinary door, instead of a portal between two entirely different buildings.

 

Some of the MI5 lab-dwellers looked at them as they passed, and one raised a hand in greeting, which Harry returned with a smile. He wandered to himself how many of them wanted to tell their friends and families about the magical door in their building, but couldn’t due to Non-Disclosure Agreements and national security.

 

They paused outside the morgue door, and Malfoy knocked on it lightly with his knuckles. Greengrass’ shout came from within and they entered.

 

“Ah, there you are. I sent that memo over 10 minutes ago!” she snapped at them from where she was stood over the body. Her hands were on her hips and she was wearing the same gear she had been wearing when Harry had come to visit on his own.

 

“Sorry Daphne, we were having lunch,” Malfoy said quietly and she raised an eyebrow, looking him over disbelievingly.

 

“Lunch together?” she asked, and Harry frowned at her but nodded. She gave a low appreciative whistle. “Will wonders never cease? Anyway, as I said, I have an ID on our victim here,” she said, and then she plucked up her wand from where it rested on a table of shiny steel implements and waved it once in the air. A shimmering image appeared over the body, like the one she had created for Piers Braith. A round face, lines in the corners of two wide eyes, his mouth turned down in a frown, his hairline receding. “Brian Kendrick. Forty-six years old, released from Azkaban three weeks ago. Family live in Guildford, so he came a long way just to be killed. Command is getting an address for you,” she said, and the image faded from the air.

 

“Anything you can tell us about time of death?” Malfoy asked, and Greengrass shook her head.

 

“Not yet, I’m still running a few tests. Wounds are consistent with the last victim though - teeth marks all over. Kendrick didn’t get it quite as bad as Braith did, but not a nice way to go at any rate,” she said with a sigh, before leaning over the hunk of meat that had been Brian Kendrick. She poked resignedly at something that might once had been his thigh, and then shook her head. “We’re testing the partial body parts we have in case there’s any left over DNA from the killer, but I wouldn’t hold your breath on that. Still, I’ll let you know if anything comes of it,” she said, standing up. Harry nodded, but Malfoy was still frowning.

 

“Why is he less… ravaged? Could the killer have been interrupted?” he asked, and Greengrass shrugged.

 

“He could have fought back, made them have to work for it. At this stage I can’t say, Draco,” she said, and Malfoy nodded at her response. Harry turned to go, and Malfoy followed suit, but Greengrass stopped him just before they got to the door. “I’ll see you at dinner tonight, Draco?” she asked, and he paused at the door and nodded, his back still to her, before he opened it and slipped out into the corridor, Harry following him, a bit confused.

 

They said goodbye to the Muggles as they passed through, and then they went back to the bullpen, where Lynch caught them just as they were walking in, gesturing at them from her desk.

 

“Got an address here for you,” she said, waving a piece of parchment at them. Harry walked over to her desk and took it off her, scanning it and memorising the address before passing it to Malfoy, who also studied it. “Make this quick, boys. As I said, whatever you need, but I want this case solved,” she said sternly, and Harry nodded, Malfoy following suit. They strode out of the bullpen and down to the Apparition point, and Harry exchanged a glance with Malfoy just as they were about to Disapparate - Malfoy didn’t want to tell another family that their son was dead just as much as Harry.

 

**{#}**

 

The Apparition point in Guildford was just next to the canal, beneath a shady tree. Malfoy was already standing there when Harry appeared, smoothing his Auror jacket. Once again, Harry felt scruffy in comparison. Malfoy’s hair was straight and neat, hanging down around his shoulders, whereas Harry’s was, as always, sticking up at every angle. He raised a hand to try and flatten in, but caught Malfoy looking at him.

 

“Have you thought about growing it out?” Malfoy asked and Harry frowned at him.

 

“Won’t that make it worse?” he asked, and Malfoy shrugged.

 

“Maybe. But it looks like your hair wants to be curly, but it’s too short to curl. It might be neater if it was longer,” he said, and Harry huffed a laugh at him.

 

“Thanks for the styling tip, Malfoy,” he said, and then he set off for the address Lynch had passed over to them. It was a 10 minute walk into the highly exclusive area bordering on central Guildford (and Harry knew how expensive Guildford was, Vernon had often complained about it because it was less than forty minutes away from Little Whinging and was still too expensive for the Dursleys, which upset Vernon greatly), and the wide leafy roads were picturesque in the winter sunlight.

 

“Here it is,” Malfoy murmured, and they stopped. It was a red-brick Victorian house set back from the road with a gravel drive. There was an old but well-kept Rover parked in front of the house, and Harry shared a look with Malfoy - a Death Eater’s family had a car?

 

They made their way up to the front door, the gravel crunching under their feet, but the front door opened before they could knock. An old man, dressed smartly in a blue jumper and brown trousers, glanced them over and frowned.

 

“Can I help you?” he asked, and Harry gave him a respectful smile. He had Brian Kendrick’s eyes, and his chin, and in a few minutes Harry will have obliterated his world. It never got any easier.

 

“My name is Harry Potter, Sir, and this is my partner, Draco Malfoy. Are you Mr Derek Kendrick?” he asked and the old man nodded, still eyeing them suspiciously. “We’re from the Auror department. Could we come in?” he asked, and Mr Kendrick’s eyes widened, but he stepped back and let them in, turning to call in to the house.

 

“Mary! Some men from the Magic Government are here!” he called and Malfoy gave the man an affronted look behind his back, but Harry gave him a quelling glance before he could say anything.

 

“Ministry of Magic, Derek, how many times-,” an old woman said, shuffling into the hallway in slippers, wiping her hands on a teatowel, but she stopped when she saw Harry and Malfoy, her eyes quickly taking in their Auror jackets, their solemn expressions. She raised a hand to her mouth. “No,” she whispered and she collapsed against the nearest wall. Her husband was startled and went to help her, but she waved him off, looking at Harry and Malfoy with tear-filled eyes. “You’ve come about Brian, haven’t you?” she said quietly, and Harry nodded. She gave a wail of despair and then pushed herself off the wall and disappeared into a room, the man following her. Harry gestured Malfoy forward and they followed them into what was a neat and cosy living room. Husband and wife were huddled together on a sofa, looking very old indeed.

 

“We have some bad news, I’m afraid,” Harry started but Mary Kendrick waved a hand at him, clutching the tea towel to her face, and he gave Malfoy a confused glance. Malfoy nodded to continue. “I’m sorry to have to tell you, but a body was found on Blackpool beach this morning and was identified as Brian Kendrick. I’m very sorry for your loss,” he said, and Derek Kendrick’s face went slack, looking between his distressed wife and Harry.

 

“No,” he murmured quietly, and that single word held so much anguish in that Harry felt it like a gut punch. He shook his head. “No, not Brian. He only came home the other week, he can’t be-,” he started and then he took broke down in tears like his wife. Harry stepped forward and put a hand on the man’s shoulder, trying to comfort him.

 

“We are currently investigating his passing,” Malfoy said quietly and Mary looked up at him, fat tears rolling down her face.

 

“What happened?” she asked between sobs, and Harry looked at her.

 

“We’re still trying to find that out. But please be assured that we will let you know as soon as we discover who did this,” he said, and Malfoy nodded, before stepping forward.

 

“We do need to ask someone questions, I’m afraid. Do you know of anyone who might wish to cause your son harm?” he asked, and Mary snorted.

 

“Most of the Wizarding World, I expect,” she said, dabbing her face with the tea towel. Beside her, her husband sobbed, and she gave him a sad smile before looking back at Malfoy. “He’s… _was_ , half-blood. I’m a witch, Derek’s not. He was Sorted into Slytherin, which was a surprise - my family had always been Hufflepuff. And I think he felt… inferior, somehow, being half-blood, so he lied and said he was pure-blood. And then he left school and got mixed up with You-Know-Who, and we didn’t see him for _years_ ,” she breathed out this last word like it cost her everything to say it, and Harry gave her a sympathetic look.

 

“Stupid boy," Derek Kendrick muttered, pressing the cuff of his jumper to his face to try and mop up his tears. “His sisters were so worried.”

 

“We got a letter from the Ministry when he was sentenced to Azkaban. We used to write every week. And when he was released, he came straight home,” Mary continued, her voice rising, as though she was angry and hopeful all in one. “He apologised, said he had been wrong, that he was going to try and do some good in the world,” she said quickly and her face crumpled into tears again. “He was so excited. He had a new lease of life,” she said.

 

“Did he speak to anyone from the Wizarding World in the last week or so? Was he planning to meet with anyone?” Malfoy asked, and Mary frowned. Tears streaked down her face but it was almost like she didn’t realise. Hermione called it ‘leaking’ and had told Harry in a moment of reflection that she had done it a lot during that last year, as they flitted between forests. She cried with realising, or even noticing. Harry had not told her that he had done the same.

 

“He had a meeting with the parole board on Monday night. And then he got a Floo call on Tuesday morning,” she said, and Harry nodded.

 

“Did you see who he spoke to? Or hear them at all?” he asked, and she shook her head.

 

“I gave him his privacy when he had a Floo call. All I can tell you is that I heard a woman’s voice,” Mary said, and Derek nodded next to her.

 

“Did he call her by a name at all?” Harry pressed, but Derek shook his head.

 

“Nothing. I was in the kitchen and could hear the call, but he didn’t say any names,” he said, and then he reached for his wife’s hand, and she laced her fingers with his and held on tight. Harry and Malfoy exchanged another look and Harry stepped away from them.

 

“Once again, I’m very sorry for your loss. We are going to have to search Brian’s room I’m afraid, though that can wait if you want some peace,” Harry suggested, and Derek nodded, a tear slipping off the end of his nose and landing on the back of his wife’s hand. “Would you like me to send a Family Liason officer to speak with you?” he asked, and Mary looked up from where she had been staring at their joined hands.

 

“Yes, I think that would be best,” she said, and she reached her free hand to pat the top of her husband’s hand.  Harry nodded and said they would let themselves out. As they left the room, they heard Derek speak.

 

“What are we going to tell Emily and Jessica?” he asked before he dissolved into sobs. Harry shut the front door on the grieving parents and took a second to stand in the winter sunlight, letting it soothe some of the anguish he felt on their behalf.

 

Next to him, Malfoy was fishing a sheet of purple memo paper out of his jacket with shaking hands. Harry gave him a concerned look.

 

“Are you okay?” he asked and Malfoy nodded, his lips pressed so tightly together that he looked like he was about to bite clean through them. He pulled a sheet of memo paper free and held it in one hand. With the other, he pulled his wand from it’s holster and tapped the paper with it. The paper sprung into the aeroplane shape the Ministry favoured and then disappeared with a _pop_ , off to the Family Liason office. “We should get back,” he said and Malfoy nodded, taking a steading breath. He rolled his shoulders, and then gave Harry a steady look.

 

“Let’s go,”

 

**{#}**

 

Harry spent the rest of the afternoon trawling through Ministry court records, trying to create a list of known associates for Brian Kendrick. He had been a minor Death Eater if his court transcripts were anything to go by, but he had been a longstanding member as well, joining the ranks just prior to the first defeat of Voldemort. Harry found it hard to believe that he had repented so thoroughly, but he understood that his family had wanted to cling to the idea of redemption for him.

 

Harry looked up to from the rolls of parchment unfurled in front of him to find that the bullpen was half-empty and most of the lights were dimmed. He glanced at the clock on the wall - it was well past his usual leaving time, and with a start, he realised he was running late for dinner with Ron and Hermione. His eyes felt dry and gritty from deciphering the scrawls of the court scribes, and his back ached from hunching low over his desk for however long it had been since he had returned. He took off his glasses for a second and rubbed his eyes, thinking back on the rest of the afternoon.

 

Their return had also been something of an event. They had been walking into the bullpen, talking about what they had managed to glean from their visit to the Kendricks’, when Thatcher had ‘accidentally’ bumped into Malfoy, sending hot tea spilling down his front. While Malfoy gasped and reared back, Thatcher had given a very insincere “Sorry,” and went back to her desk, grinning at her co-conspirators. Harry, enraged, flicked his hand and caught her with a tripping jinx, sending her crashing into Narang’s desk. She got to her feet spluttering, but Harry had already taken Malfoy to the kitchen to clean him up.

 

“Here,” he had said, pulling out his wand to cast a cleaning charm, but Malfoy waved him off.

 

“Oh, leave it. I have to go home and change anyway before dinner,” he said, picking up a roll of paper towel and winding it around his hand to blot his uniform. Harry automatically did the same and had a hand pressed to Malfoy’s thigh before his brain caught up with him.

 

“Uh,” he said stupidly, the sodden paper towel hanging limply from his hand, but Malfoy just stared at him. Harry had turned tail and fled to his desk, scribbling a barely legible request to the Archive team for information about Brian Kendrick’s trial and conviction. When Malfoy had slipped past his desk a few minutes later, his trousers still damp but obviously better due to a drying charm, Harry’s desk was covered in rolls of parchment and he was reading through them with a forced conviction.

 

That had been a few hours ago and apparently the forced conviction had turned real, because when Harry looked over, Malfoy’s desk was dark and empty. He had obviously gone for his dinner engagement elsewhere. Sighing to himself, Harry grabbed a blank square of parchment and scrawled out a note to Ron and Hermione, telling them he was sorry but he was going to have to skip fish and chips tonight and go home. He put it in his post tray and it disappeared off to the Owlery to be sent out. Hopefully they’d get it before Ron set off for the chippy around the corner from their house.

 

Standing up from his desk, Harry shoved a few things into his satchel, including the roll of parchment he’d been reading when he had finally looked up, and doused the light by his desk.

 

He decided to take the Floo home, and barely paid attention to the house elf that offered up the dish full of Floo powder, but he stopped when it squeaked “Please be having a good evening, Sir!” He was reminded of his conversation with Malfoy earlier, and he looked down and smiled at the Elf.

 

“Thank you, you too,” he said, and the Elf’s large bat-like ears twitched with pleasure as she gave him a toothy smile back.

 

He dropped the powder in and called out “12 Grimmauld Place!”, stepping in and watching the flames flash green before they whirled him away. He landed in the drawing room, like usual, and dropped his satchel on the floor by the hearth, heading to the kitchen.

 

“Kreacher! I’m home,” he called as he entered the hallway, and the house elf poked his ugly head out from behind the kitchen door.

 

“Master Harry is always at Weasley and Granger’s house on Thursday nights,” Kreacher said, as though disappointed Harry was home.

 

“I got caught up in work, I decided to cancel,” he said, stepping into the kitchen, watching Kreacher scurry to the pantry, open the door and stick his head in, as if checking for ingredients.

 

“I have not prepared a meal for Master Harry,” Kreacher called gloomily, and Harry shrugged.

 

“I’ll order in. Do you have those takeaway menus?” he asked, and Kreacher snapped his long fingers - a drawer on the sideboard pushed open and Harry fished out three of the menus that were crammed into the small drawer. “Thank you, Kreacher. I’ll be in the library, could you bring me a beer?” Harry asked, and Kreacher made a noise of acknowledgment, before Harry shut the kitchen door behind him.

 

He tucked himself into the corner of one of the loveseats and flicked half-heartedly through the menus. Kreacher appeared with his beer less than a minute after he had sat down, and then disappeared, leaving Harry to decide on his dinner options.

 

In truth, he actually quite fancied fish and chips, and there was an excellent chippy two streets over, but Harry wasn’t sure he could be bothered to walk over - it was also a Muggle shop, so he couldn’t send Kreacher instead. His eyes lingered on the menu of a Chinese place on the high street, but nothing held his gaze for very long.

 

Chippy it was, then.

 

Harry stood and left the library, leaving his beer on the side. He took the stairs two at a time down to the entrance hall and paused in front of the sideboard there, pulling open a drawer and fishing out a packet of Muggle money. He pulled two £10 notes from the packet and shoved them into his jeans pocket, and then pulled a Muggle-style coat from the rack.

 

“Kreacher, I’m going out for dinner. I’ll be back soon!” he shouted into the house, but there was no reply, which wasn’t all that unusual. He adjusted his wand, hiding it better in the folds of his coat, and then opened the front door and stepped out into the cold winter night.

 

The sky was clear except for one or two clouds, but like always in London, the stars were invisible due to the light from the surrounding buildings. It was one of the things Harry really missed about Hogwarts, being able to look out the window at night and see the sky scattered with stars.

 

He sighed, his breath creating a mist in front of his face, and turned to walk down the road when he noticed a figure stood by the gate of the park in the middle of Grimmauld Place. He moved his hand so it was close enough to grab his wand if he needed it, but he needn’t have bothered. As he looked closer, the figure stepped into the light and Harry raised an eyebrow - Malfoy was standing by the Green, looking, for lack of a better word, distraught.

 

“Malfoy?!” Harry called, and Malfoy crossed the road without looking to see if there were any cars coming - thankfully the road was quiet at this time at night. “Malfoy, what are you doing here?” Harry asked as Malfoy approached. He was dressed in a finely cut dark blue suit with a pale grey shirt underneath with a dark grey tie to match, but he looked chilled to the bone - the suit obviously didn’t provide much warmth.

 

“Potter,” Malfoy said faintly, and Harry stared at him. “I… I wanted to talk,” he said, and Harry gave him an incredulous look.

 

“Malfoy, it’s nine at night,” he said, and Malfoy nodded stiffly but said nothing further. Harry sighed and then grabbed Malfoy’s forearm and hauled him up the stairs to number 12. “I’m getting some fish and chips, why don’t you wait inside? Do you want anything?” he asked, withdrawing his wand from his coat and tapping it against the front door. The lock clicked and the door swung open, and Harry bundled Malfoy through.

 

“Master Harry?” Kreacher called, confused, and Harry rolled his eyes.

 

“Just letting in a fri- a _colleague_ , Kreacher. Can you come and get Malfoy settled into the library?” he shouted back, and Kreacher came out of the kitchen at a run, looking beside himself.

 

“A _Malfoy_? Oh yes, Master Draco Malfoy, son of Mistress Narcissa, yes, please, come,” Kreacher said, sounding breathless with excitement. He plucked at Malfoy’s jacket and Malfoy followed the Elf silently upstairs, glancing back at Harry who once again slipped out the front door.

 

Harry took a second outside the front door to pinch the bridge of his nose under his glasses, and then he set off for the fish and chip shop at a jog, determined to get back in time before Kreacher officially adopted Malfoy as Master of the House.

 

The shop was relatively busy for a Thursday night, and Harry had to wait before he ordered two rounds of fish and chips, both with salt and vinegar. He paid and left with his order, the paper wrapped package held tightly in his arms, giving him some warmth as he jogged back home. He let himself in and paused to see if he could hear anything, but there was only the faint tinkle of glass upstairs. He hung up his coat and went into the kitchen, dropping the food on the table. Kreacher appeared opposite and nodded without saying a word, picking up the package and taking it to be plated up.

 

Harry turned on his heel and then wound his way up to the library, opening the door to see Malfoy sat in the corner he had inhabited less than an hour ago, his jacket flung over the armchair and the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows. The Dark Mark was pale, faded into his skin, but it caught the flickering firelight in a way that made the snake look like it was swaying. Malfoy was cradling a wine glass full of a rich red liquid in one hand, and the other was held in a fist over his mouth, like he was trying to stop himself from saying something he might regret. He was staring into the fire, but his eyes were glazed, as if he was thinking of something very far away.

 

“Are you okay, Malfoy?” Harry asked, sitting down on the other loveseat. Malfoy glanced over at him but kept his mouth shut as Kreacher entered the library. Two trays of plated fish and chips bobbed along behind him, and he settled them on the coffee table in front of them before bowing low and leaving the room. Harry blinked - Kreacher never bowed to him. Harry lifted one of the trays into his own lap and picked up his knife and fork, hunger gnawing at his stomach now. He glanced at Malfoy, who was still staring into the fire, but decided to eat without waiting.

 

He had just raised his first bite of battered fish and wonderfully salty chips to his mouth when Malfoy spoke.

 

“I’m engaged,” he said quietly, in a rasp, and Harry lowered his fork so quickly it clattered on his plate.

 

“I’m sorry?” he asked, not entirely sure he had heard Malfoy correctly, but the other man spoke up again.

 

“I’m engaged. I’m to be married. In June, Mother says,” he said in a monotone voice, and Harry frowned.

 

“Uh, congratulations?” he said, confused, and Malfoy glanced at him. Harry was shocked to see he looked like he was about to burst into tears. “Malfoy, what’s-?”

 

“I’m gay,” Malfoy snapped, dropping his hand from his mouth and tightening his grip on the wine glass. Harry was worried for a second he was going to snap the stem. “I’m a fucking shirt-lifter, fairy, fudge-packer, whatever you want to call it, I’m _gay_ and I don’t want-,” he trailed off, as if all the fight had suddenly left him. “I don’t want to be married,” he said quietly, almost as if he was terrified.

 

Harry lifted his tray of food off his lap and set it back on the coffee table and then angled his body to face Malfoy’s, mimicking what he would usually do when facing an emotional suspect. He suspected it might be the best way to help Malfoy, whose revelation had startled Harry but was obviously not the point of contention in this conversation.

 

“Who are you engaged to?” Harry said, trying to keep his voice even. He was a bit confused, too - if Malfoy didn’t want to get married, why was he engaged?

 

“Astoria Greengrass, Daphne’s sister,” Malfoy said quietly, before taking a gulp of wine. “She’s the perfect pure-blood wife for me. Beautiful, charming, a Slytherin, her family were neutral during the War so her reputation can repair mine,” he added bitterly, staring into the wine glass.

 

“Did you propose or-?”

 

“My Mother arranged it,” Malfoy said, his temper building. “My Mother and her Mother have been planning this arrangement for nearly a year now. Had to keep negotiating the marriage contract because it’s not like we have anything of value for the Greengrasses. My bloody Father drained the family accounts dry in pursuit of the Dark Lord’s approval and my salary isn’t quite the level that Astoria’s accustomed to.” Harry frowned even deeper at this, and Malfoy slid his gaze to Harry. “It’s so Mother can get another few years of legal fees out of Astoria’s dowry. Selling my life to try and get my Father’s back.”

 

“Wait, it’s an arranged marriage?” he asked, and Malfoy gave a bark of laughter. He raised his glass and mockingly toasted Harry, who felt heat rise on his cheeks.

 

“Yes, got there in the end did we, Potter?” Malfoy said, sounding delighted, and Harry glared at him.

 

“It doesn’t explain why you ended up outside my house looking shellshocked,” he snapped back, and Malfoy quietly down, but he still smirked into his wine glass.

 

“Arranged? More like forced,” he muttered, more to himself than to Harry. “I needed somewhere to go where Mother won’t think to find me. She told me as soon as I got ready for dinner, and I was supposed to formally propose tonight, in front of Astoria’s family, even though the papers are all signed. If she doesn’t know where I am, she can’t force me to do it,” he said simply, and Harry had to allow himself a small smile at that. Ingenious in a way - hide at the one place nobody would think to look.

 

“Can’t you refuse? Explain to your Mother? Surely they can’t make you marry a woman if you’re gay,” Harry asked and Malfoy snorted.

 

“My grandfather Abraxas was gay, Potter, it’s a well-known fact. He just took a potion and closed his eyes, and voila, my father was born. The same will be expected of me,” he said, drinking deeply from the wine glass once again. Harry gave him a pitying glance. “Maybe I’ll be so lucky as to contract Dragon Pox in my sixties and die quickly,” Malfoy added as he lowered the glass, and Harry frowned at him.

 

“That’s not funny,” he said quietly, and Malfoy gave a harsh laugh.

 

“Oh, it is, Potter. After all, what other use for Malfoys is there?” he said ruefully and went to drink again from the wineglass but found it empty. He muttered to himself as he looked around for the bottle of wine while Harry stared at him, then stood and moved to sit down next to Malfoy, which caused Malfoy to stop searching for the bottle of wine, though he wouldn’t meet Harry’s gaze.

 

“You’re an excellent investigative Auror,” Harry said firmly, and Malfoy glanced at him. “You’re calm and collected, and you know what you’re looking for in the next step. I’m a mess myself, I can barely string two clues together, but you - you’re good. And you don’t judge people on what you’re told, you judge them on what you know to be true. I… I struggle to do that, sometimes,” he said, and Malfoy was still looking at him, a strange look on his face. Harry barrelled on, pulling strands of things he knew about Malfoy out of his memory and piecing them together. “You’re witty and you’re always respectful, and you don’t rise if any of the others take a jab at you, though I wish you would sometimes, and you remembered _Dobby_ -,”

 

It happened so quickly that Harry didn’t have time to react. Malfoy lunged forward, fell at him really, and cupped a hand on Harry’s jaw and kissed him, hard, on the mouth. Harry was still for a moment, before leaning into the kiss, letting his body relax into it, overwhelmed by the softness of Malfoy’s mouth, the smell of sage and sandalwood that enveloped him, the heat of Malfoy’s hand against his jaw. He made a small noise in the back of his throat and that seemed to knock Malfoy to his senses. He reared back and practically threw the wine glass to the floor, where it toppled over but didn’t smash, and jumped to his feet. He was halfway to the door when Harry flicked his hand and the door shut in front of him. He spun around looking like a deer in headlights.

 

“Don’t leave,” Harry said quietly but calmly, licking his lips. He could taste the red wine Malfoy had been drinking on them. “Please, don’t,” he said, and Malfoy deflated, stepping away from the door but not sitting back down on the sofa. Harry licked his lips again, chasing the taste of Malfoy and the red wine, and then he took a steadying breath. “I’m bisexual, I think,” he said, and Malfoy raised an eyebrow at him. Harry gave him a cautious smile. “So, that kiss wasn’t exactly… unwelcome,” he said, and Malfoy’s other eyebrow shot up as well.

 

“What are we doing?” Malfoy asked after a minute of silence. He sounded resigned and tired and scared, and Harry felt those own feelings echoed in his body.

 

“I don’t know what we’re doing in the future. But tonight, we’re going to eat this fish and chips I went out for, and we’re going to have a drink, and then we’re going to bed - _to sleep_ ,” he said, seeing a strange emotion flit over Malfoy’s face, “and then tomorrow we’ll continue our investigation and go from there,” he finished firmly, and Malfoy nodded. He carefully came back to the sofa and sat down, and mimicked Harry as he picked up his tray and rested it on his lap. Harry picked up the fork he had originally loaded to eat and took a bite.

 

“It’s good fish and chips,” he assured Malfoy, catching his frown out of the corner of his eye. Malfoy gave him a small smile and took a bite himself, and then they sat in a comfortable silence as they ate, the memory of the kiss lingering in the room.

 

**{#}**

 

The alarm went off next to Harry’s bed and with a groan, he rolled over and slapped a hand to the ringing clock, shutting it down. He forced his eyes open, letting them adjust to the dim light of his room, though everything was still blurry.

 

There was movement next to him and Harry glanced over - a head of white blond hair was visible just under his duvet, and Harry’s heart jumped to his throat for a second before remembering that he was fully clothed in his pyjamas, and they definitely hadn’t done anything last night. Malfoy had offered, in fact, to sleep in a guest room but Harry had said he could use the company and handed Malfoy a set of soft pyjamas, which he took gratefully. Harry was sure Malfoy needed the company more than he did, but he wasn’t going to deny he slept a little easier for having someone else in the bed with him.

 

The bedroom door opened a crack and Kreacher slipped in, placing a cup of tea on Harry’s bedside table. Harry croaked his thanks and caught Kreacher’s eye wandering to the other figure in the bed beside Harry.

 

“Will Master Malfoy be wanting tea too?” Kreacher said in a silky voice that Harry knew meant mischief from the Elf, and so he nodded and Kreacher disappeared from the room with a _crack_. Next to him, Malfoy jerked and sat up in the bed, his hair mussed.

 

“Wazzat?” he said sleepily, and Harry made a small noise of amusement.

 

“It’s Kreacher, he’s just gone to fetch you some tea. Do you want a shower?” Harry asked, and Malfoy gave him a blank look, before realisation hit him. He grabbed the duvet and hiked it up to his chest, which made Harry laugh. “I’ll go first then,” he said, kicking the covers off and padding over to the ensuite room, grabbing a fresh pair of boxers and socks from his chest of drawers as he went.

 

The ensuite was a luxury he had installed after he moved in. He had wanted Grimmauld Place to be completely renovated into a modern and welcoming home instead of the dreary place Sirius had hated, but Ginny had insisted on keeping some of its ‘ _Old World Charm_ ’ as she had called it. Harry thought privately to himself that he was going to get a quote for having all the work he wanted done as soon as possible.

 

He showered and brushed his teeth, dried himself off with a fluffy towel and sent a drying charm over his hair (which Hermione often scolded him for, but it dried his hair more effectively than anything else). He took a moment to study himself in the mirror.

 

His green eyes were as vivid as always, and his hair still as dark as ever. But there was something about his face that made him think he looked permanently exhausted - whether it was the set of his jaw or how his mouth turned down slightly at the corners, Harry always thought he looked a little haunted. It certainly didn’t help that he rarely got any daylight, especially in the winter months, and his skin looked pale and wane. Frustrated, he ran a hand over the steamed mirror and smeared his reflection, turning his back on it to get dressed. He pulled on his boxers and socks and then left the bathroom, leaving the door open to let the humidity out.

 

Malfoy had woken up some more since Harry had gone to shower, and was now sat up in bed, a cup of tea in his hands, talking quietly to Kreacher, who was keeping a respectful distance.

 

“Master Harry is finished with his shower,” Kreacher announced to the room as soon as he noticed Harry, who gave him a bemused look. “Will Master Harry be wanting breakfast in the kitchen today?” he asked, and Harry realised Kreacher was trying to impress Malfoy, trying to show that he was a good and dutiful house elf. Harry decided to play along, taking a second to delay the reply by picking up his glasses from the bedside table and putting them on.

 

“Yes, Kreacher,” he said finally, and Kreacher scuttled out of the room, muttering to himself about breakfast. Harry caught Malfoy looking at him, and he shrugged one shoulder.

 

“I inherited him from my Godfather,” he explained, but Malfoy only flushed a little and set his cup onto the bedside table beside him.

 

“I’ll shower now,” he said, pushing the covers off and standing. His pyjama trousers had slipped low overnight, so they were barely covering his hip bones, and Harry had the sudden ridiculous urge to lick the flat planes of Malfoy’s stomach. He looked away before he felt compelled to do so.

 

“Towels are in there, help yourself,” he said as Malfoy slipped past him into the bathroom, and then he spotted Malfoy’s suit from last night neatly folded on top of an armchair Harry kept in the corner of his room. “I think Kreacher’s laundered your suit, too,” he called as the bathroom door clicked shut behind Malfoy. There was no reply.

 

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose, a habit he seemed to be developing, and internally cursed at himself. He had been lusting after Malfoy for a while, definitely harbouring a small crush, and sleeping in a bed next to him had not been the way to get over it. In fact, Harry was pretty sure it was a medium-sized crush now. The memory of the kiss replayed in his head and he bit back a smile, while also resisting the urge to punch himself.

 

He rummaged through his chest of drawers for a shirt and trousers to wear to work that day. He settled on a pair of black jeans and a grey shirt under a green jumper. A glance behind the curtain showed a layer of frost sitting over London that morning, and Harry was going to try and dress appropriately for the weather.

 

He finished dressing and tried to flatten his hair (once again to no avail), before slipping out the bedroom, pulling the door shut behind him, and making his way downstairs to the kitchen. Kreacher had laid on a spread in honour of their guest, and Harry was stunned that the Elf could whip up two Full English Breakfasts, plus pancakes and slices of fresh fruit, in the time that he had. A fresh pot of tea was sat in amongst the breakfast things, so Harry sat and helped himself.

 

“Would Master Harry care for some freshly pressed orange juice?” Kreacher asked, appearing at Harry’s side and brandishing a jug. In the corner of his eyes, Harry could see the wicked gleam of the steel juicer on top of the counter, and so he agreed, if only to show his appreciation for the Elf’s efforts.

 

Harry picked at his Full English, and helped himself to some fruit and a pancake. He was just finishing a bit of egg, mushroom and sausage, when Malfoy walked in. He was dressed in the same suit he had worn the night before, but he looked a lot less shellshocked than he had yesterday. He sat down opposite Harry and looked at the breakfast laid out before him.

 

“I need to get home. I should change and get my jacket,” he said after a second, and Harry nodded, though Kreacher looked disappointed.

 

“Have something to eat at least?” Harry suggested, and Malfoy gingerly picked up a fork and speared a fried tomato on it, bringing it to his mouth and taking a bite. “Do you want tea? Or would you prefer coffee?” Harry asked, and Kreacher was by the ancient-looking french press in a second, ready to whip up a fresh batch of coffee in a moment’s notice. Malfoy swallowed his tomato and picked up some eggs and mushrooms next.

 

“Tea will be fine, thank you,” he said, and Kreacher appeared at his elbow to pour the tea. He also offered the jug of orange juice to Malfoy as well.

 

“Fresh orange juice, Master Malfoy?” he asked and Malfoy eyed the jug.

 

“I’m allergic, so no thank you. Do you have any pumpkin juice?” he asked, and Kreacher disappeared to fetch some.

 

“Allergic to orange juice?” Harry asked, cutting a slice of sausage. Malfoy shrugged, swallowing again before answering.

 

“Citrus in general, actually. Makes my throat swell up,” he said, and Harry nodded. He poked at his plate of food as Kreacher reappeared with the pumpkin juice. They ate in silence and Malfoy stood after finishing his last bite of bacon and his cup of tea.

 

“I need to go. I’ll see you in the bullpen,” he said quietly and then he turned on his heel and left out the front door before Harry could say anything further. Kreacher watched him go with a sad expression on his face, before he rounded on Harry.

 

“Do not be upsetting Mistress Narcissa’s son, Master Harry,” he said firmly, and Harry spluttered indignantly.

 

“Why would I upset him?!” he asked, but Kreacher only sniffed and set about cleaning up breakfast, whipping Harry’s nearly-empty-but-not-quite-done plate out from underneath his poised fork. “Hey! I wasn’t finished!”

 

**{#}**

 

The bullpen was noisy as always in the morning when Harry arrived, and he made his way to his desk with his usual round of greetings. He glanced over at Malfoy’s desk to see it was still empty - he obviously hadn’t made it in before Harry.

 

Harry sat down at his desk and pulled out the scrolls of parchment he had meant to read through the night before, setting it down on his desk. He also fished Hagrid’s letter out of the pile and pulled a fresh sheaf of parchment towards him, reaching for a quill and loading it.

 

There was an address for Lachlan of the Outer Hebrides Clan scrawled at the bottom of Hagrid’s letter, as he had said, and Harry copied it onto a corner of the parchment. He blotted the ink and then flipped the paper over and began to write. He didn’t quite know how to address a letter to a Selkie, so he just tried to be respectful as possible, as he was asking for information.

 

He finished writing his request and folded the letter, sealing it with tap of his wand so that the address was on the outside. He dropped it in his post tray and it disappeared with a _pop_. Then, leaning back in his chair, Harry glanced over at Malfoy’s desk again to see Malfoy was now sat there, dressed in a fresh shirt and trousers, his hair tied back for once.

 

Harry 's heart gave a giddy leap, which he tried to smother. It wouldn’t do to be seen fawning over Malfoy like a lovelorn fool, even if that’s what Harry felt like. He turned back to his own desk and tried to focus, picking up a scroll that he had meant to read the night before, and unfurling it, reading over the court notes.

 

Thus far, Kendrick hadn’t mentioned anything that would cause him to have someone waiting to kill him once he was released. He mentioned no names except for ‘ _You-Know-Who_ ’, and Corban Yaxley, who was his ‘ _Commanding Officer_ ’ as it were, but nothing further. He was apologetic about his crimes, if not repentant, and accepted his sentence to Azkaban with grace. There was nothing that Harry could see that would make someone mark him for death.

 

Shaking his head, Harry stood up and took the scroll with him over to Malfoy’s desk. Malfoy looked up as he approached and his cheeks flushed a little but he said nothing. Harry held out the scroll to him. “Do you mind having a read through this? I don’t know if I’m missing something, I could use another set of eyes,” he said, and Malfoy nodded, taking the scroll off him, before standing.

 

“I want to go to the morgue actually, if you’d like to come with me?” he asked Harry, and Harry nodded, falling into step with Malfoy as they walked to the Portkey door.

 

“Did your Mother find you?” he asked in a low murmur as they walked. Malfoy stiffened a little next to him, but his face remained carefully neutral.

 

“My flat was plastered with letters this morning, but I haven’t spoken to her yet,” he replied quietly and Harry nodded. “I don’t know what to say to her, really,” he added after a moment, before glancing at Harry from the corner of his eyes “Did you know you’re wearing Slytherin colours?” he pointed out, but by then they had reached the doorway so Harry couldn’t say anything in protest.

 

The Muggle lab was surprisingly empty for this time of morning, and when Malfoy knocked on the morgue door, it was Greengrass’ voice that called for them to enter. They let themselves in and found her bent over a body, though not Brian Kendrick’s. This body was intact, and was a very old witch with smoke residue down one side of her face.

 

“Potions accident,” Greengrass said by way of explanation. “We’re trying to determine if it was an accident, because apparently there’s been arguments over her china set for the last decade or so.” She stood up and leaned back, wincing as her back made an audible clicking sound. She shook her head and turned to look at them. “What can I help you with?” she said pleasantly enough, though she gave Malfoy a subtle filthy look. Harry raised an eyebrow at her.

 

“I was wondering - is there any way the victims were killed in the sea, and then got washed back in?” Malfoy asked her, and Greengrass blinked at him. This was obviously not what she was expecting. She sighed and crossed her arms over her chest, and Harry was pleased to see her gloves weren’t blood-stained this time.

 

“Both victims have been covered in sea salt, though neither have been wet - well, not wet with anything that isn’t blood,” she said, giving them a rueful smile. Harry pulled a face at her, disgusted. “So I doubt it. My current theory is that they were both wounded, or incapacitated, further up the beach, and then murdered on the shoreline, but not specifically in the sea. It’s possible that the tide swept them both in a bit further up the beach, but I don’t think they were killed in the sea as such. Why, what’s your thinking?” she asked, and Malfoy shrugged one shoulder.

 

“Sea hags will drag their victims into the sea, same with Kelpies,” he said, and Greengrass _tsk_ ’d in reply.

 

“A sea hag will tear out your eyes, not completely eviscerate you, and you’d never find a Kelpie victim, they get dragged to the sea floor, remember?” Greengrass said, rolling her eyes, and Harry spoke up, remembering the letter to Lachlan he had written earlier.

 

“What about a Selkie?” he asked, and Greengrass paused and then bobbed her head, almost like she was half-agreeing with him.

 

“A Selkie is a possibility. But there isn’t a clan this far south, and they’re usually very peaceful with humans. I’ve never heard of one to savage a human, let alone two,” she said, and Harry frowned. Maybe his letter to Lachlan would reveal nothing, but it was worth asking.

 

**{#}**

 

_‘Daily Prophet  - Society Announcements - 21st November, 2004_

_The engagement is announced between Draco Abraxas, only son of Mr and Mrs Lucius Malfoy of Salisbury, Wiltshire, and Astoria Tyche, youngest daughter of Mr and Mrs Linus Greengrass of Harrogate, North Yorkshire. A June wedding is planned.‘_

 

Harry read the small paragraph over and over again. Two sentences announced to the world that Malfoy was to be married, and that was that. Harry looked up from the paper to glance over at Malfoy’s desk. He was bent over a roll of parchment, and was studiously not looking up, though half of the bullpen's eyes were on him. Harry had borrowed the paper from Louisa, for Merlin’s Sake, and she was the biggest gossip the Ministry had ever known. It would be all over the Ministry by tea break this morning.

 

Harry stood up and wandered over to Malfoy’s desk, the paper in his hands. As he approached, Malfoy looked up at him and then back down to the scroll of parchment.

 

“I hope you’re here to tell me they’ve found another body, because otherwise I don’t want to talk about it,” he said in a casual tone of voice, but his shoulders were tense and belied his true state. Harry sighed and perched on the edge of Malfoy’s desk.

 

“I’m sorry you couldn’t convince her,” he said quietly, and Malfoy shrugged one shoulder, not looking up.

 

“You try and tell my Mother ‘ _no_ ’ when she’s crying about a new lawyer’s bill that has come in for an appeal that we didn’t win,” he said, his voice evenly measured. Harry resisted the urge to reach out and touch Malfoy, to comfort him.

 

They had become friends, of a sort, in recent weeks. Malfoy had taken to turning up on Harry’s doorstep a few nights a week and eating dinner with him, before going back home. He hadn’t stayed the night since his first visit, a fact for which Harry was both grateful and resentful. He couldn’t deny the fact that he sat on the same sofa as Malfoy during his visits, wanting to feel the heat from his leg against Harry’s own. He also couldn’t deny that he did things that would make even a sixteen-year-old schoolgirl cringe - how he tilted his head just so, how he accidentally brushed Malfoy as he reached for the bottle of wine they were sharing. Harry was embarrassed by his own actions, and yet he couldn’t help himself. He wanted to be closer to Malfoy, wanted to kiss him again, but was too scared to actually say those words, or make the move himself.  

 

“What are you going to do?” Harry asked Malfoy, studying the lines of Malfoy’s neck and shoulders. His hair was down so his face was covered, and so Harry couldn’t read his expression.

 

“I’m going to get married and produce at least one Malfoy heir, and then I get to have all the extramarital affairs I want,” Malfoy replied petulantly, and Harry rolled his eyes. This was something else he had learned about Malfoy - when he became defensive, the sarcasm was cranked up to maximum. Harry had tried to learn to not rise to the barbs Malfoy threw at him, but sometimes it was hard to bite his tongue. Instead, he cleared his throat.

 

“Any news on the case?” he asked, and Malfoy flicked his eyes up to meet Harry’s before looking down again.

 

“Which one?” he asked, and Harry rolled his eyes again. Their Blackpool Ravager, as the _Daily Prophet_ had taken to calling the unknown killer, had not killed again since Brian Kendrick, but that didn’t mean they were satisfied. On the contrary, Malfoy’s theory was that the killer was waiting for someone specific in order to strike next, and the stillness unnerved them both. They had a call out to the parole office that if anyone missed a meeting, to let them know - thus far they had only received the call twice, and when appearing at the homes of those in question, found out that one had overslept and the other had forgotten completely. Both received cautions, but there was no further sign of the killer.

 

“You know which one,” Harry said, and Malfoy sniffed, before leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest. In the past few days, a plain silver band had appeared on his left pinky finger, which he had explained to Harry over this fourth tumbler of Firewhisky a few nights previously, meant that he was engaged now. After his marriage vows, it would take the form of his family’s signet ring.

 

“I am to be Master of Malfoy Manor,” he had slurred, sloppily pouring himself another Firewhisky. He had stared morosely as the bottle only gave up a dribble, while Harry swayed in his seat and watched. “How wonderful.”

 

Now, sober and in the cold light of day, Malfoy seemed to everyone else like he was happy to have the ring on his finger, but Harry saw the way he twisted and tugged at it, like he wanted to take it off but couldn’t bring himself to. Harry felt sympathy for him.

 

Malfoy was still eyeing Harry before he spoke again. “Nothing. Daphne hasn’t sent any word, and the Forensic team haven’t uncovered anything bizarre while searching through Kendrick’s things after our sweep. We’re just… waiting now, I suppose,” he said resignedly, and Harry nodded, running a hand through his hair. It was a bit longer than he usually liked it, he had been due a trim the other week, but Malfoy’s suggestion had stopped him. He wanted to see what his hair looked like longer, and Malfoy hadn’t been wrong. Already it looked less like his hair was staging a riot atop his head.  

 

“I’ll go make a tea, then. Do you want anything?” Harry said, and Malfoy shook his head, leaning forward in his chair again to bend back over the parchment scroll. Harry left Malfoy to his reading and went over to the kitchen, skirting past his desk on the way. Ross looked up as he walked by.

 

“He’s to be a married man, Potter, don’t you know?” Ross hissed at him, but Harry ignored him. While the Aurors had stopped implying Malfoy was gay with every hissed comment, they had now taken to accusing Harry of being inappropriate in some way. It hadn’t reached Robards yet, otherwise Harry was sure he’d been pulled into a meeting, but the comments were getting annoying.

 

In the kitchen, Harry dawdled, making a cup of strong tea. With nothing to do, he was getting bored. Field work was easy in comparison, there was always something going on, something to do, but Investigative work was that bit slower, and it set Harry’s teeth on edge. Not that they hadn’t done anything, they had solved two suspicious death (one was an accidental ingestion of poison berries, the other was a spell gone wrong), but Lynch was still keen for them to catch the Blackpool Ravager, especially since Parvati Patil had taken to disparaging them whenever possible.

 

“You should’ve given her a comment,” Hermione had said the previous week over fish and chips, while Ron nodded sagely next to her. “You know it’s better to give the beast tidbits rather than just starve it,” she had told him and Harry had run a hand down his face in exasperation.

 

“Don’t worry mate,” Ron had said, giving him an encouraging smile. “It’ll all blow over in a week or two, she’ll find something else to chomp at,”

 

So far, Parvati hadn’t found anything else.

 

Tea done, Harry made his way back to his desk to find a letter had appeared in his post tray during his time in the kitchen. His name and department was written on the front of the parchment, which smelt strongly of sea salt. He grabbed a letter knife from a drawer in his desk and cut the twine binding the letter shut, unfolding it and beginning to read.

 

‘ _Dear Mr H. Potter,_

 

_Thank you for your letter. I am always happy to help a friend of Hagrid’s - he has been kind to us for many years. I will try to answer your questions as best I can._

 

_I became Elder of this clan some twelve years ago, following the passing of my Mother, and in my time as Elder, I have tried to forge connections, if not friendships, with others of my kind. It has not been easy, since we are few and so scattered._

 

_In case you were unaware, a Selkie is born, not made, and can only be born of two Selkie parents, or a Selkie Mother and a Human Father, though so many of us are reluctant to marry humans, as it can mean never returning to the sea, which can cause madness in Selkies. Legend and fact tell us that to marry a Selkie, a human must steal and hide a Selkie’s skin while he or she is in their human form. A human woman might have a male Selkie lover for one night, but a human man might gain a Selkie wife, for only then will she consent to be his bride. My Mother got her skin back from my Father soon after I was born, but loved him enough to stay his Wife until he died._

 

_We have many clans across the globe, from the Arctic to the Antarctic. As I’ve said, I’ve tried to forge connections with them, but only a few have ever extended a response, those of the Ribbon Seal Clan in Sobolevo, the Hooded Seal Clan in Lark Harbour, and the Grey Seal Clan on the Faroe Islands. As per your request, I’ve asked if any have had missing members in the last few years, and only the Faroe Islands Clan replied. They had a young female member go missing some five years ago after a storm. Unfortunately they didn’t give me a name, but I have written back to ask._

 

_I hope that whatever great question you have than the ones you asked me has been answered by this information, but if you require anything further of the Grey Seal Clan of Bays Loch, please let me know._

 

_Yours sincerely,_

_Lachlan Douglas.’_

 

Harry read the letter again, and frowned. _Faroe Islands… Faroe Islands_ … In a second, two pieces of the puzzle came together in his mind and he was up and out of his seat and heading towards Malfoy's desk before his brain even caught up with his body. He put the letter down in front of Malfoy who blinked at it, and then picked it up to read.

 

He read faster than Harry and it was less than a minute before he looked up, his eyebrows rising. “Isla Yaxley,” he said quietly, and Harry nodded.

 

“She said she was from the Faroe Islands,” he replied, and Malfoy stood, grabbing a woollen scarf he had slung over the back of his chair.

 

“Let’s go. We need to talk to her,” Malfoy said, and Harry, feeling a little bit vindicated, went back to his own desk to grab his scarf before catching up with Malfoy at the door to the bullpen. They made their way down to the Apparition point in silence, both of them thinking, but Harry was the first to speak.

 

“Do you think she’s a Selkie?” he asked, and Malfoy shrugged.

 

“It’s possible, but they’re a protected class of humanoid magical creatures,” he added, and when Harry frowned at him, he rolled his eyes, albeit with a smile. “You can’t outright ask them if they’re Selkies,” he explained, and Harry made a small noise of understanding. “She has to tell us, or at least give us irrefutable evidence that she is one,” Malfoy went on, leading them through the Ministry atrium. The buzz from the early morning rush had died down, but there were still a few people milling about, though they cleared a path as the two Aurors swept through.

 

“Can we trick her into telling us?” Harry suggested and Malfoy raised an eyebrow.

 

“How? By asking if she’s had a nice swim lately?” he asked, and Harry laughed. The Apparition dais’ were empty, and Wu waved them through, so Harry and Malfoy climbed up and turned on the spot at the same time, disappearing with a _crack_.

 

**{#}**

 

Blackpool was even more bitterly cold than before, and the sea was a dark steel grey under the dim winter light. Harry’s scarf did nothing to keep back the cruel wind whipping across his face, but a muttered warming charm helped. He waved his hand at Malfoy, too, who gave a shudder of relief.

 

“Thank you. I keep meaning to ask, your wandless magic-?” Malfoy began, falling into step with Harry as they trudged up the beach from under the pier. Harry shrugged, tucking his chin into his pleasantly warm scarf.

 

“I managed to tap into it during my first year of training. I can only do small things with it, but it’s pretty useful,” he said, and Malfoy made a noise of agreement. “Shall we go straight to Yaxley's house?” Harry asked as they reached the promenade, but Malfoy shook his head and pointed ahead of them.

 

“No need,” he said, and Harry followed his finger to the small figure leaning against the railings that bordered the edge of the promenade. Harry gave Malfoy a quick look, and they began the short walk over.

 

“Mrs Yaxley!” Harry called through the light sea mist, and he saw Isla’s head jerk up, and she turned her head over her shoulder to look at them.

 

“Oh, Auror Potter, Auror Malfoy,” she said by way of greeting, her strange accent making her words sound a little slurred.

 

“I thought you didn’t leave the house much?” Harry asked with a smile, trying to seem conversational, but Isla’s face remained neutral. If anything, she looked smaller and paler since they had last seen her - her coat was thin and in need of repairing, if not replacing, and the jumper she wore under it hung to nearly her knees. Her hair was still down around her, straggly and loose.

 

“You caught me on one of my adventures to the seafront,” she said in an even tone to them, and then she smiled. It looked like an unnatural, forced smile, but Harry and Malfoy returned it nonetheless.

 

“We wanted to ask you some further questions, if you don’t mind?” Malfoy asked, standing with Harry a respectful distance from her - Harry had a feeling that if she felt crowded, she would bolt. Malfoy pulled a small notepad and quill from his jacket, which Harry blinked at - he had never needed one before.

 

“Of course. Anything to help,” she said politely, and Harry began.

 

“You said you were from the Faroe Islands, correct?” he asked, and Isla nodded. “Whereabouts, if you don’t mind me asking?” he asked, and Isla frowned but replied.

 

“Mikladalur, on the northern island, Kalsoy,” she replied, and Malfoy scribbled this down.

 

“Are you aware of the Selkie Clan on the Faroe Islands?” he asked, and Isla gave them both a knowing smile.

 

“They are very much a part of the community, but I never interacted with them much,” she told them.

 

“Why?” Harry asked and Isla turned her eerie eyes on to him. In this light, the pupil and iris had merged and so her eyes just looked black.

 

“The Selkies keep to themselves, I’m sure you know the stories. They are fearful that humans will steal their skin and hide them away, and force the Selkies into marriages. A forced marriage, a marriage without love, is a terrible thing,” she said mournfully. Next to Harry, Malfoy stiffened, but Harry continued.

 

“Did you know one of the Selkies went missing about five years ago? During a storm?” he asked, and Isla shrugged.

 

“I hadn’t heard. As I said, they keep to themselves,” she repeated, and Harry nodded, no further questions springing to his mind. He looked at Malfoy who frowned down at the notes he had scribbled and then looked up at Isla, who met his gaze evenly.

 

“How often do you come out here?” he asked, and Isla gave him a small, weak smile.

 

“Rarely. I miss the sea, but it makes me homesick. You could see it go on for miles and miles from my old home,” she told them, her voice sad, and her gaze slipped down, back out towards the cresting waves. Harry shivered.

 

“Well, thank you for your time, Mrs Yaxley,” he said, and he and Malfoy turned to leave. Isla called them back, and he looked back at her, her long hair picked up by the breeze, her eerie eyes holding his gaze.

 

“I didn't love him, Mr Potter,” she said simply, and Harry thought back to Yaxley, how he was tall and broad and blonde, with cruel eyes and a sharp smile. He only nodded in response, as if he understood, and then he and Malfoy left her standing alone on the promenade.

 

**{#}**

 

Kreacher had made him a curry for dinner, and while Harry appreciated the Elf's desire to diversify his repertoire, he did not appreciate finding unopened cardamom pods with every third bite. He picked at the rice (which was cooked perfectly, to Kreacher’s credit), and then excused himself. His gaze drifted to the liquor cabinet as he stood up from the table, but Harry decided against it. He was feeling less fraught these days and found he didn’t want to drink as much.

 

He left Kreacher with a request for a pot of tea in the library, and then made his way upstairs. He had just reached the first floor landing when there was a banging from the front door, and Harry froze, his socked feet resting on cool wood. Anyone who would visit his home at night were permitted entry by the Floo, so there was no need for anyone to come by the front door.

 

There was more banging, and Harry pulled his wand from the waistband of his jeans, holding it up as he turned quietly and edged back down the stairs, keeping out of sight from the front door. He heard the kitchen door creak open and he leaned over the banister to wave Kreacher back into the kitchen, which the Elf did so with a scowl. The banging continued until Harry was nearly by the front door himself, his back pressed flat to the wall, his wand raised in preparation to defend himself.

 

“POTTER!” someone yelled from outside, and Harry’s eyebrows shot up.

 

“Malfoy?!” he cried, both in frustration and relief. He stood up properly and reached for the door knob, pulling it open. Malfoy stumbled and fell into Harry, and it was only Harry’s arms circling around him that prevented him from landing face first on the floor. “Malfoy, what are you-?” Harry asked, half-shoving Malfoy into a standing position as Malfoy weakly tried to wrestle him off. “Oi, Malfoy, what are you doing at my house at this time of night?” Harry snapped as Malfoy vaguely ran a hand over his hair, doing nothing to smooth it out from where it had been ruffled.

 

“I wanted to talk,” Malfoy said, staggering back a little. His words were slurred and his eyes slipped in and out of focus, and Harry blinked at him.

 

“Are you drunk?” he asked, and Malfoy started to shake his head but suddenly stopped and groaned, raising one slim hand and holding it to his head with a grimace.

 

“Maybe?” he replied quietly, and Harry rolled his eyes. He waved a hand, shutting the front door with his magic, and then put a hand on Malfoy’s shoulder, mostly to steady him as he was swaying dangerously on the spot.

 

“Take your coat off, come on,” he said quietly, helping Malfoy out of his coat, which was a little damp - it must have been raining outside. “Go on upstairs to the library, I’ll be up in a minute,” he said, and Malfoy took off for the stairs. Harry ran a hand over his face and then hung Malfoy’s coat up by his on the coat rack (taking a second to admire it there), before going to the kitchen and poking his head in.

 

“Kreacher, add another cup for that tea please, and bring up a Sobering Solution?” he asked the Elf, who nodded curtly and went to do as he was told. Harry took the stairs two at a time and went into the library to find Malfoy swaying in front of the fire, looking at the mantelpiece.

 

“Issat your Mum?” Malfoy slurred at him, pointing at the photograph in the centre of the fireplace. It was, with his Dad and Sirius at their wedding. Harry’s mother laughed and tossed her red hair back, turning her face to look at her husband, who was watching his new wife with a besotted smile. Next to him, Sirius pulled a face, which faded into a good-natured wink.

 

“Yes, it is,” Harry said, coming to stand next to Malfoy, whose gentle swaying pressed him against Harry’s shoulder again and again. “That was their wedding day,” he added, and Malfoy grimaced a little.

 

“You look like her,” he said, still slurring but his tone of voice gentle, and Harry gave him a small smile.

 

“Everyone says I look like my Dad, but with her eyes,” he said, and Malfoy wrinkled his nose. He tapped the edge of the frame, and Lily gave him an amused but exasperated look.

 

“You’ve got her smile,” he said, and Harry felt a thrum of pleasure go through him. As a child, he would have given anything to be compared to his Father, but as he had grown older, he had found himself desperate for comparisons between himself and his Mother. Few who had known her were alive now, and even if they were, their words were just platitudes.

 

‘ _She was very kind, your Mother.’ ‘Brightest witch of her year, no doubt about it.’ ‘She was a wonderful friend.’_

 

There was a knock on the library door and Kreacher stepped in, the tray laden with teapot, milk, sugar, two cups and saucers, and a slim bottle with a purple liquid inside, balanced in his arms. He set it on the coffee table and then bowed low and left, the door clicking shut behind him.

 

“Come on, let’s get you sobered up,” Harry said, taking Malfoy by the forearm lightly and leading him to one of the sofas. He sat him down, taking a moment to allow himself to brush Malfoy’s hair back off his face, and then plucked the Sobering Solution off the tray, holding it out to Malfoy. “Down in one,” he said, and Malfoy took the bottle off him and popped the cork, before raising the bottle to his mouth and tilting his head back. His throat worked to swallow the potion, and Harry had to look away, busying himself with making a cup of tea. Malfoy straightened back up and grimaced, the flush of intoxication draining from his cheeks rapidly.

 

“That tastes rancid,” he said, spluttering, and Harry smiled at him.

 

“You’re the one that turned up drunk on my doorstep,” he replied, and Malfoy made a small noise of agreement. “Tea?” Harry asked, and Malfoy nodded.

 

“Yes, please. One sugar and milky, if you don’t mind,” he replied and Harry set to work fixing up Malfoy’s cup of tea, handing the cup over on a small saucer when it was ready. “Thank you,” Malfoy said, taking the saucer and holding it gently in his hand, as though he had been born with one there. Harry, who was used to drinking out of whatever mugs were left over in the bullpen kitchen, or one of the novelty ones that Ron insisted buying him that were hidden in the kitchen, left the saucer on the tray and just picked the cup up by its fine china handle.

 

“Want to tell me what’s wrong?” he asked, sipping at the tea - it was still too hot and scalded his lips a bit, so Harry set the cup back down. Malfoy gave him a long look, before rolling his shoulders, as if steeling himself for the upcoming conversation.

 

“I was thinking about what Isla Yaxley said, earlier,” he said, and Harry raised his eyebrows - that hadn’t been what he was expecting. Malfoy stared down at the tea in his hands, his mind obviously elsewhere. He was quiet, until Harry was on the verge of asking him what Isla had said to make him like this, when he spoke again. “I feel like someone has stolen my skin,” he said sadly, and Harry frowned at him, reaching up and pulling off his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose - he had a headache coming on, he could tell.

 

“Like..?” he prompted, folding his glasses and resting them on his lap, and Malfoy continued with a sigh. Without his glasses, the library around Harry was blurred, the flames in the fireplace just a glowing mass of light, but Malfoy - he could still see him, even if it was only in his mind’s eye. He could imagine the expression on his face, the sweep of his eyelashes. He forced himself to listen to Malfoy’s reply.

 

“Like everything I am is being discounted in favour of this marriage. Like I’m standing in a crowded room, screaming, and no one is even flinching. Like I’m so desperate for this to end that I’ll tear down walls, brick-by-brick, just to get away,” he said, and Harry was stunned. He knew Malfoy wasn’t happy about the marriage, but he didn’t realise it was this bad. Familial duty had always seemed to be such a priority to Malfoy.

 

Harry reached a hand and laid it on Malfoy’s thigh, trying to offer him some comfort.

 

 

“I’m sorry I can’t do anything more,” he said quietly and Malfoy sighed again and set the cup and saucer down on the tray in front of them, before dropping his hand onto Harry’s, curling his fingers around Harry’s hand.

 

“I think this might be enough,” Malfoy said, and Harry gave him a small smile. They lingered there for a moment, Harry’s hand held by Malfoy’s, before Malfoy tilted his head and Harry raised his and their lips met somewhere in the middle.

 

It had been like that moment all those weeks ago - Harry was at once pleased and surprised by the firmness of Malfoy’s thigh under his hand, the softness of his hair as Harry raised one hand to tangle in it, the softness of his mouth as Harry pressed closer. Malfoy kissed him like he was drowning, and Harry withdraw his hand that had been resting on Malfoy’s thigh to cup around his jaw, to give him some space to breathe.

 

Their fumbling grew more frantic as Malfoy realised Harry wasn’t going to stop him, wasn’t going to take a step back and ask him to think it through. Harry was accepting everything Malfoy gave, and returning the favour as well. Malfoy angled his body closer to Harry’s, his hands skirting around the waistband of Harry’s jeans, then tugging his shirt out of it, his long fingers slipping under the material to ghost on Harry’s stomach and ribs, and Harry couldn’t help but let out little gasps of pleasure, and bite at Malfoy’s lips until he was dizzy with need. It was only when his glasses clattered to the floor, having slipped from his lap, that Harry pulled away, gasping for breath.

 

“We-,” he said quietly, his voice hoarse, meeting Malfoy’s mouth for another sharp biting kiss. “We should-,” he tried again, and Malfoy made a noise of frustration.

 

“If you say ‘ _stop_ ’, I’ll shove you into that fireplace,” Malfoy said, focusing his attention on Harry’s jawline, nipping at the skin there. Harry gave a small breathless laugh.

 

“I mean we should go upstairs,” he said quietly, and Malfoy stilled, his hands on Harry’s ribs, his face tucked into the curve of Harry’s neck where Harry could feel his breath. He ran his hand through Malfoy’s hair soothingly, as Malfoy leaned back. His cheeks were flushed, and his lips looked plump and bee-stung, and Harry couldn’t resist leaning it and kissing him again, softer this time. Malfoy made a small noise in the back of his throat and Harry withdrew.

 

“Do you really want to?” Malfoy asked quietly, sounding so insecure and nervous that Harry nearly told him he was joking, they could stay down here and make out, but then he realised that what Malfoy actually wanted was reassurance, reassurance that Harry wanted him as much as he wanted Harry. So instead, Harry nodded, rising to his feet, offering his hand to Malfoy who hesitated for just a second and then took it. And then they left the library, their two cups of tea forgotten.

 

**{#}**

 

Harry woke to heat around his middle. He stirred against the pillows, and the heat tightened and then relaxed, and Harry realised it was an arm. He let his hand reach up and slide over it, taking in the smooth skin, the long thin fingers. Harry allowed himself a small smile, and lifted his head from the pillows, reaching out to fish his glasses off the bedside table - Kreacher must have put them there, because he didn’t remember bringing them up with him last night. He waved a hand and the lights in his room rose enough for him to be able to see, but not so bright as to disturb his bedmate.

 

Harry looked around the room, allowing himself a smile at the trail of destruction left on the floor. His shirt was flung over a portrait hanging from the wall, and Malfoy’s - now, strangely, _Draco_ in Harry’s head -  trousers were in a pool by the foot of the bed. Harry’s body was thrumming with the memories of the night before, how Draco's skin had been soft and hot to touch, how he had felt pressing over him and in him. Harry gave a little shiver of pleasure, before pushing himself up to stand, the sheets falling away from his naked body.

 

He glanced at the alarm clock which told him he had half an hour until his alarm was set to go off, so Harry padded into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him before turning on the light. He took a long, leisurely shower, letting the hot water soothe his sore muscles, and when he stepped out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist twenty minutes later, he was surprised to see Draco’s eyes open, watching him as he came back into the bedroom, his body still languid in the bed.

 

“Hi,” Harry said quietly, surprised at how shy he sounded, and Draco gave him a small smile and a nod. “Shower’s free if you want it,” Harry said, opening his chest of drawers and fishing around for some underwear, before stepping into the pair of boxers, dropping the towel at the same time. He looked over again to the bed and Draco had sat up, his hair tousled, to watch Harry move around the room. Harry continued to bustle around, choosing a shirt from his wardrobe and grabbing his jeans from where they had been discarded over the back of the armchair in the corner of the room. He sat on the edge of the bed, and summoned the towel from the floor by the chest of drawers to roughly dry his hair. As he did so, he felt a hand slide across his middle, and a body press against his back, Draco’s mouth sliding against his shoulder.

Harry glanced over his shoulder to look at Draco, whose eyes were bright in the dim light. He looked as though he was waiting for Harry to do something, but Harry wasn’t entirely sure what he wanted. Instead, Harry turned until he was facing Draco, who looked troubled.

 

“Are you okay?” he asked, touching a lock of Draco's hair that had fallen forward, tucking it behind his ear. Draco gave a small nod of his head, but Harry just frowned at him instead. “Really?” he asked, and there was a pause before Draco spoke, his voice slightly hoarse.

 

“I don’t know,” he admitted, looking awkward for a second. The sheets were pooled around his waist and the faded mark on his forearm caught the light, but Harry only had eyes for his expression, how his pale eyebrows drew together. “I think I’ll have to be,”

 

“You know, I like you a lot,” Harry said suddenly, something in Draco’s expression stirring an emotion inside of him. Draco’s eyebrows shot up and he gave Harry a sardonic look.

 

“I should hope so, after last night,” he said dryly and Harry gave him a grin, but continued.

 

“I’m not just attracted to you, you know,” he said, and Draco looked confused. Harry rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “I actually quite like you as a person. You’re smart as a whip and you can be funny when you want to be. I just… wanted you to know,” Harry added, a little lamely, and then he leaned forward and kissed Draco on the cheek before turning around to finish getting dressed.

 

“I think I might leave the Aurors,” Draco said, more to Harry’s sheets than to Harry himself, and Harry stilled, his shirt half pulled on. He turned around so fast he was surprised he didn’t break his neck.

 

“What?” he asked sharply, and Draco picked at a knot of thread on the sheet, his fingers trembling slightly. Harry’s elbow was still caught awkwardly in his sleeve, but he didn’t dare move in case it forced another epiphany on Draco.

 

“I don’t know if I’ll ever be redeemed, in their eyes. I can solve as many cases as I can, bring how ever many criminals to justice, and I will never be anything more than a Death Eater,” he said, quietly but firmly. He looked up at Harry, determination in his eyes. “There’s a job opening up at Hogwarts after the summer, Defence Against the Dark Arts. The current Professor wants to take a sabbatical to Mongolia, and I saw the advert in the _Daily Prophet_ ,” his jaw was set, like he was ready to argue about this. Harry forced his face into an encouraging smile and finished shrugging on his shirt.

 

“Well, if that’s what you want to do,” he said, and Draco tugged harder at the little knot of threads. “Is it what you want to do?” Harry asked tentatively, finally pulling his shirt straight. Draco frowned at the sheet.

 

“I wanted to redeem myself. Wipe the slate clean, as it were. But I don’t think I can do it with the Aurors, no matter how much I want to,” he murmured, and Harry nodded, reaching out a hand to move Draco’s fingers away from the sheet, lacing them with his own.

 

“Don’t do anything until we solve this case,” Harry said, and Draco looked up, confused. Harry rolled his eyes. “I don’t think I’ll be able to solve it without you. Stay until then, please,” he said, and Draco studied his face for a long moment before nodding decisively. He pushed himself off the bed and went into the bathroom, and Harry allowed himself the pleasure of watching him walk away.

 

Harry finished dressing as he heard the shower working, before cracking open his bedroom door and hissing Kreacher’s name into the dark corridor. There was a _crack_ and Kreacher appeared, looking solemn.

 

“What can Kreacher be doing for Master Harry and Master Malfoy?” Kreacher asked, bowing low again. Harry rolled his eyes.

 

“You can stop, he’s in the shower,” he said, and at once Kreacher stood upright again, looking sour. “Can you bring some tea up, please? And make some breakfast. Nothing with citrus though, remember?” he ordered, and Kreacher nodded before disappearing again. Harry shut the door again and reached for a comb on his bedside table, running it through his hair. It did nothing to make his hair lie flat, and Harry decided to let it air-dry this morning instead of sending a drying charm over it.

 

As the shower turned off in the bathroom, Harry grabbed a jumper from the wardrobe and slipped out of the room, leaving Draco to get ready in peace. He found Kreacher climbing the stairs, two mugs of tea trailing behind him, both sloshing dangerously but never spilling. Harry plucked one out of the air and continued down the stairs, ignoring Kreacher’s betrayed muttering.

 

The kitchen was a whirr of activity, even without Kreacher there. A wooden spoon was stirring baked beans in a small pot on the stove, while two eggs and a few rashers of bacon sizzled away in a pan. Harry sat in his usual seat and the glass in front of him filled with pumpkin juice. Harry set his tea down and thought about what needed to be done in the day ahead.

 

Two minutes later, Kreacher rejoined Harry in the kitchen, giving him a sniff of disdain.

 

“Master Malfoy has finished in the shower,” he said, and Harry nodded. Kreacher gave him a cool look, but then turned to check on the food on the stove, muttering to himself.

 

“Are you mad at me, Kreacher?” Harry asked suddenly, plucking at the cuff of his jumper, and the elf stilled before turning to face Harry, his expression carefully neutral.

 

“Kreacher is not mad, no,” he said and Harry raised an eyebrow at him. The elf plucked at his t-shirt awkwardly. “Kreacher remembers seeing Master Malfoy in Malfoy Manor, during the Dark Lord’s residence. Master Malfoy was very scared, and Kreacher tried to tell him that he knew things, things about Harry Potter that would help the Dark Lord, and Master Malfoy looked even more scared. Master Malfoy asked Kreacher not to tell, but Kreacher did,” the elf explained, looking at the floor. Harry was listening to him avidly, for he had never been told this. “Kreacher realises now that the Dark Lord killed Master Regulus, and if Kreacher had known that then, he would never have told the Dark Lord anything about Harry Potter. But Kreacher remembers how Master Malfoy had said that Harry Potter was the only hope he had, and that Kreacher could get Harry Potter killed,”

 

“He did?” Harry asked, bemused. Draco had been obnoxious to Harry throughout fifth year, and the summer before his sixth he had taken the Mark. Harry could not imagine the Draco of those days cowering in corners of his family’s grand home, begging house elves not to tell the Dark Lord things about him, trying to keep Harry from harm.

 

In response to Harry’s question, Kreacher nodded.

 

“Yes, he did. Master Malfoy wanted to keep Harry Potter safe. And now, I am thinking that Master Malfoy loves Harry Potter, so Kreacher is asking Master Harry to keep Master Malfoy safe now,” Kreacher said finally, his bullfrog croak toning down in a whisper as the floor overhead creaked. Harry was stunned by what Kreacher had said - Draco, love him? - but before he could ask anything more, Kreacher had spun around to face the stove just as Draco came in, his clothes neatly pressed, his hair tied back from his face. He gave Harry a warm smile, and slid in the seat opposite - it had always been Ginny’s seat before, but Harry thought he liked the look of Draco in it better.

 

“Did you sleep okay?” he asked casually as Draco picked up the glass of pumpkin juice that had filled for him and drank from it.  

 

“I did, thank you,” Draco said politely and Harry nodded, feeling a bit awkward. Kreacher put a plate full of food down in front of him and gave him a quelling look, before walking around the table to gently place Malfoy’s food in front of him.

 

“Toast will be a minute, Sirs,” he croaked at them before returning to the stove. Harry picked up his knife and fork and began to eat. There was nothing but the scrape of knives and forks for a few minutes before Draco cleared his throat and Harry looked up.

 

“What are we doing?” Draco asked, looking lost, and Harry remembered him asking the same question after they had kissed for the first time. Harry was about to state that they were having a breakfast, but Draco continued to speak. “Are we colleagues? Friends? I don’t know if I can get married with this hanging over me,” he said, and Harry’s heart sank at the mention of Draco getting married. Whatever it was between them, it was fragile and half-formed, but Harry wanted it badly. He opened his mouth to reply, but there was a clanging sound from the Floo, which made Harry look over. Kreacher leaned forward over the open hearth and answered.

 

“Grimmauld Place, how may Kreacher help?” he said politely as Lynch’s face quivered in the flames.

 

“Where’s Potter?!” she snapped at the elf, and Harry stood, coming to kneel in front of the fire.

 

“I’m here, Sir,” he said and Lynch’s eyes snapped to him. She looked thunderous.

 

“There’s been another murder, get down to Blackpool immediately! I’ve been trying to call Malfoy but with no luck-,” she began and then Draco crouched down at Harry’s side, resting a hand on Harry’s shoulder to steady himself. Lynch’s eyes flickered to that hand, but she said nothing.

 

“On the beachfront again, Sir?” he asked politely, and Lynch’s head bobbed in the flames as she nodded.

 

“Greengrass is already there, so I expect you both to be there in less than a minute,” she told them curtly before her head disappeared from the flames with no word of goodbye. They both rocked back on their heels, pausing for a minute.

 

“Do you think she suspected?” Draco then asked quietly, and Harry shrugged one shoulder, before reaching for the edge of the kitchen table and pulling himself up to stand.

 

“I don’t know how much more obvious it could be, you freshly showered in my house. Regardless, we need to go, and quickly,” he replied, reaching with one hand to help Draco to his feet as well. His hand slipped from Draco’s grasp and he brushed himself down, knocking some ash from the knee of his jeans. He looked up and Draco was looking at him, worrying his lip beneath his teeth. Harry leaned forward and gave him a small, light, kiss on the corner of his mouth, before stepping back. “Come on,” he said, and then he and Draco left the kitchen, heading straight for the front door.

 

**{#}**

 

Draco didn’t have his Auror jacket with him, so they had transfigured a spare one from one of the old cloaks hung by the front door of Grimmauld Place, but apparently it was shoddy work because Draco kept complaining how cold it was as they looked over another ravaged body.

 

“I’m sick of these things,” Greengrass told them petulantly as they had walked up to her, fog from the sea pooling around their shins. She was wearing another full-body protective suit, and she scowled at them from behind her half-mask. Her eyes lingered over Draco, but he didn’t meet her gaze. “They’re no fun to work out. It’s like assembling a puzzle after a toddler’s been on a rampage,” she said, and Harry gave her a small nod of agreement. She sniffed disdainfully and knelt down over the body. “Good news is, the murderer is getting sloppy. We managed to find some hair in this one’s fist - or what I assume was their fist, once upon a time - so that’d been sent off to Forensics already. They should have something back for us by tomorrow at the latest,” she said, and Harry nodded.

 

“Anything else you can tell us?” he asked, and Greengrass laughed at him.

 

“It’s the same as the others, Potter. Torn limb from limb and then dumped out here. It’s a sad way to go,” she added, giving the body a sympathetic look. Harry nodded, but didn’t say anything further. Greengrass waved a hand further up the beach. "There's blood starting all the way from the pier down to here. We’ve circled off most of it, but have a look. If you see anything we’ve missed, mark it off,” she said, dismissing them. They both turned, and left her and the body in the damp sand.

 

“She was… distant,” Harry said carefully, and Draco shrugged but did not comment. After the night before, Harry’s body sent a shiver of delight through him everytime Draco looked at him, or brushed him in some way. As they walked, their arms brushed and Harry’s heart skipped a beat. He was definitely feeling like a lovelorn teenager, even if he wasn’t acting like one anymore.

 

They followed the pools of blood up the beach, one after the other, like footprints in the sand. Down by the body, there had been puddles of it, but as they made their way further up the beach, the blood pools became smaller and smaller until the last one, circled just by the stairs leading up to the promenade, was little more than a few drops. "The attack got more frenzied as they got further down the beach," Draco said quietly, and Harry nodded. He turned back to face the sea, and he saw Daphne wave at him, once, before she and the body disappeared into thin air.

 

“Daphne’s taken the body back,” he said and Draco glanced over his shoulder, some of the tension draining out of him. Harry looked at him, studied his body language for a moment, before asking “Why do you think Daphne’s off with us?” he asked, and Draco shrugged.

 

“I wouldn’t know,” he said quietly and Harry could tell, somehow, that he was lying. He looked at Draco again, practically stared at him, and Draco glanced at him before sighing and then looking at the murky grey sky above them, as if asking for help. “I might have missed a dinner with Astoria last night,” he said, and Harry glared at him.

 

“You stood up your fiancée to show up drunk at my house?” he asked stonily, and Draco avoided his gaze. Harry sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, before lowering his hand and adjusting his glasses. “Do I want to know why?” he asked. Draco looked at him and gave him a small, soft smile.

 

“Because I wanted to see you,” he said and some of Harry’s anger evaporated. Draco looked back down at the splatter of blood and shoved his hands into the pockets of his poor substitute for an Auror’s jacket. “We’ve been dancing around that kiss from a few weeks ago ever since. I wanted to see you, and I wanted to make - well, make a move, as it were. You… you settle me, I think,” he admitted quietly, and a hint of flush appeared on his cheeks.

 

“Really, because you make my head spin,” Harry blurted out, and Draco looked over at him, bemused. Harry felt his own face flush. “I mean… I was confused. I think I’ve been confused for a while. Ask Ron and Hermione, they’ll tell you I was practically obsessed with you in Sixth Year. Now that I think about it, I don’t think it was entirely because I suspected you of something,” he said and Draco shot him a cool look. Harry shoved his own hands into his pockets awkwardly. “I only meant-,”

 

“I know what you meant,” Draco said and then he sighed. “We can’t talk here, this isn’t the right time. I’ll come by later though?” he asked and Harry nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. Draco glanced back at the site were the body had been, before nodding. “We should get back to the bullpen. See you at the Ministry,” he said, before turning on the the spot and Disapparating. Harry took a moment to breath, to let the sea air brush against his face, before turning too.

 

**{#}**

 

Lynch hounded them the moment they walked into the bullpen. She even left her desk to do so, which shocked Harry. He doubted anyone in living memory had ever seen Lynch out from behind her desk, but there she was, looming over them.

 

“Do you have any ideas yet?” she asked, and when both of them said nothing further, she pinched the bridge of her thin nose. “I have the Minister riding my arse on this, boys. The Wizarding World is in a panic, convinced any of them could be next. Last I heard, some of the Blackpool residents have taken up the rooms at the Leaky Cauldron, which is giving Hannah Abbott a migraine to say the least. _Solve it_ , boys, that’s an order,” she told them before storming back to her desk, her scarlet robes billowing behind her.

 

“She’s right, we need to solve this,” Draco said, leading the way back to his desk. Harry didn’t really know why they always met there, but it was probably because it was so secluded. Draco was rummaging through a pile of files when he next spoke. “Get one of those blackboards,” Draco said, pointing at the floating group of them behind Lynch’s desk. Harry waved a hand to summon one and it shot over, nearly braining an Investigative colleague who gave Harry a filthy look. Harry mouthed his apologies as the blackboard settled against the wall behind Draco’s desk, bobbing there serenely. Draco straightened and studied the blackboard, before withdrawing his wand from its holster by his hip and tapping it twice on the board. Scribblings appeared in white chalk in handwriting Harry recognised as Draco’s, sprawling and spidering across the board to form several words and bubbles.

 

 _‘Death Eaters’_ said one, then next to it _‘What connection?’_ in smaller writing. On and on, more writing bloomed across the board until it was practically full. Half of it read like a stream of consciousness, and the rest looked like out of place topic headers, scattered around. But Draco was studying the board intently, as if it held all the pieces of the puzzle.

 

Once there was no more space left on the blackboard, they both leaned in closer.

 

“Potter!” Louisa's voice cut across the bullpen, and Harry looked up and around. She was standing at the edge of bullpen, looking at him. “Robards wants a word,” she called, jerking her head back towards his office door, and Harry nodded, casting a quick look at Draco who raised an eyebrow at him but said nothing. Harry made his way to Louisa’s desk and she gave him a smile and led him to Robards’ door, knocking on it once and then opening it. “Potter for you, Sir,” she said, before stepping back and gesturing Harry through. She pulled the door shut behind him.

 

Robards was sat behind his desk, scribbling on a length of parchment with a eagle feather quill. He glanced up at Harry and gestured for him to sit, which Harry did so in the same leather armchair he had taken those few weeks ago. The silence was filled by the scratching of quill against parchment, and Harry resisted the urge to clear his throat to remind Robards that he was there. He just waited instead, until Robards set the quill down in the ornate ink pot at the corner of his desk and nodded to himself, before folding his hands across his middle and looking up at Harry.

 

“Thank you for coming, Potter. I just wanted to check up with you on your current assignment,” Robards said, and Harry raised an eyebrow.

 

“Shouldn’t you be asking me and Dra- _Malfoy_ , Sir, as we’re a team?” he asked and Robards sniffed, but didn’t answer.

 

“Lynch tells me you’re doing well. Says you’ve been thorough with evidence and asking the right questions. She’s pleased with your work so far,” Robards continued, as though Harry hadn’t asked him a question. Harry just listened to him but said nothing further. “She’ll be happy to keep you on the Investigative team for the time-being, which I think we all agree is a better fit for you than Field work,” Robards said, and Harry’s heart clenched.

 

He was enjoying being on the Investigative team. In some ways, it reminded him of those first few years at Hogwarts with Ron and Hermione, always solving something, always looking for a clue. But he had never imagined his career with the Aurors like this. He had always thought he’d be out there, in the streets, catching the criminals and bringing them to justice.

 

Then he thought of Draco, always watching, always looking, trying to find the threads that linked two things together no matter how improbable, and the ache in his chest eased a little. He would be proud to be an Auror like that some day.

 

“I’ll be happy to stay with Malfoy as my partner, Sir,” he said, and Robards frowned at him.

 

“Malfoy?” he asked, obviously confused, and Harry raised an eyebrow.

 

“He’s been very helpful, Sir, in getting me used to the Investigative team. He’s been-,”

 

“Oh, you shouldn’t have to worry about staying partnered with him for too long,” Robards said, waving a hand. Harry sat up a bit straighter, his eyebrows drawing together, confused.

 

“What do you mean, Sir?” he asked, and Robards gave him a slightly stunned look, as if Harry couldn’t possibly not know.

 

“I mean that Malfoy isn’t long for the Aurors, Potter. He’s good, but his reputation proceeds him. We had a hell of a time finding Forensic teams that would agree to take evidence from him, and he isn’t one for making friends with the team,” Robards said, and Harry was stunned.

 

“You’re going to _fire_ Draco?” he said incredulously, and if Robards noticed the name slip, he didn’t let on.

 

“Not ‘ _fire_ ’, no,” Robards said, “He’ll be asked to leave. It’s not good for morale, having one of his kind on the staff. We gave it a good shot but-,”

 

“What do you mean, ‘ _his kind_ ’?” Harry snapped, and Robards looked offended, his expression suddenly thunderous. He pulled himself up straighter, looking imperious.

 

“Remember who it is you’re talking to, Potter,” he said quietly and Harry felt his expression go rigid, the respectful mask falling into place, even though he was fuming internally. Robards settled in his chair and continued, “I mean, of course, a Death Eater, reformed or not. Not to mention the other rumours circling the bullpen,” Robards added, giving a little scoff, and Harry felt his cheeks heat. He remembered Thatchers catcalls, and Ross’ snide remarks, and he wanted to curse them both where they stood. Robards didn’t seem to notice. “We’ll be giving him notice once the case is closed, and we’ll be assigning you a new partner. We have a good group of trainees coming up next month, we’ll probably find you someone from that batch,” he said finally, before leaning forward in his chair. “You’re good, Potter, and I would hate for your reputation to be tarnished. I can see you behind this desk in a decade or so, if you keep it up,” he said, giving Harry what he cleared thought was a fatherly smile. Harry had never wanted to punch him more.

 

“Am I dismissed, Sir?” he asked through gritted teeth, and Robards waved a hand, leaning back in his chair. As Harry rose and headed for the door, Robards called after him.

 

“Keep this chat between us, eh, Potter?” he said, and Harry nodded stiffly before opening the door and swiftly exiting Robards’ office. He could feel the anger and rage he felt about their conversation bubbling in his chest, and he tried to keep his hands still at his sides, because he wasn’t sure what kind of magic he would do if he let them relax.

 

Draco was still stood in front of the blackboard, scribbling something in chalk next to one of the bubbles. Harry took a moment to pause, to look at him. True, Draco had said to him last night that he wanted to leave the Aurors, but to be pushed out - that was unfair. Suddenly Harry wanted to take Draco by the hand and walk them both out of the bullpen, leaving the whole lot of them to rot. But he couldn’t, not with this investigation on the line. Somewhere in his head, Hermione’s voice piped up.

 

“ _You can only change things from the inside, Harry. It’s no use banging on the door when it’s been shut already,_ ” and Harry knew what she meant. He had to stay if he wanted anything to change, if he wanted to do better than Robards. He straightened his shoulders and headed back to Draco’s desk. Draco looked away from the blackboard as Harry approached.

 

“What was that about?” he asked, and Harry shrugged one shoulder, trying to not give anything away.

 

“I’ll tell you about it later,” he promised, and Draco raised an eyebrow but nodded. He stepped forward and tapped the blackboard.

 

“There’s a link missing, but that’s always the case. The link is almost always the thing that gives away who the killer is. If we can figure out the link, then we can-,” he began to say, but he was cut off when a memo came shooting in to the room and landed on his head. Harry smothered a smile as Draco pulled it out of his hair, and unfolded it. He scanned the page and nodded. “Daphne has identified the victim. Iona MacGrory, she’s passed along the address. Another Death Eater who was released not too long ago,” he said, handing over the memo. Harry quickly checked it over and nodded - the address was in Nottingham.

 

“Let’s go,” he said and they left, Harry glancing at the shut door of Robards’ office on their way out.

 

**{#}**

 

The MacGrory home was in a distinctly Muggle area. The houses were reminiscent of those from Harry’s childhood on Privet Drive and the surrounding roads. If he didn’t look too hard, he could have almost sworn he was back there, and that sent a cold shiver down his spine. He hadn’t spoken to the Dursleys in years, except to send them a letter after the War letting them know he was alive and he had won. He hadn’t received a response, not that he had been expecting one.

 

The MacGrory house itself gave off the distinct aura of being a Wizard’s home, in contrast to its neighbours. The front garden had a sizeable herb collection lining the pathway up to the front door, and there were broomsticks hanging from the wall on the side of the garage. Harry wondered how they got away with it, until he remembered that Muggles rarely noticed anything unless it was directly pointed out to them. Their eyes must glaze and slip over this house as they went past.

 

Draco knocked on the door firmly, and the sound of a dog barking from further inside the house rang out. There was a shout and then the door was pulled open a crack, obviously still on a chain.

 

“Can I help you gentleman?” a middle-aged man asked, frowning at them both. His hair was that colour between brown and grey, caught between youth and old-age, and though there were fine lines in the corners of his blue eyes, they were bright and keen. Harry had a pang of sympathy for him - they were about to tear his whole world down.

 

“MacGrory residence?” Draco asked, and the man nodded. “We’re from the Auror Department at the Ministry of Magic. May we come in?” The man frowned, and the door was pushed shut before they could hear the scrambling of a chain being pulled free. The door then swung open again, and the man gestured for them to come in.

 

As they stepped into the entrance hall, a small grey dog came zipping out of the kitchen, barking and wagging its tail. Harry bent down to pat it, and the dog circled around his hand happily. Draco cleared his throat pointedly, and Harry straightened up with a smile, not in the least bit ashamed of greeting the dog. The man was watching them both carefully.

 

“Is this about Iona?” the man asked, still frowning at them. Harry kept his expression neutral. “I’ve tried to contact someone about her, she didn’t come home last night and I know she has a curfew,” he dropped his gaze to the little dog, who huffed and sat by his feet, obviously still bemused by their visitors.

 

“Are you Michael MacGrory?” Harry asked, remembering the name of Iona’s husband on the memo Greengrass sent over, and the man nodded in response. “Do you have somewhere we can sit?” Harry prompted, and Michael looked frustrated but nodded and led them into the living room, sending the dog into the kitchen with a sharp command. He took a seat on one of the cream armchairs while Harry and Draco perched side-by-side on the sofa opposite him.

 

“Unfortunately, Sir, we’re here to inform you that the body of your wife, Iona MacGrory, was found earlier today in Blackpool,” Draco began and Michael’s face slackened in shock.

 

“What?” he said quietly, and Draco repeated himself. He was leaning forward in his seat, angling his body towards Michael, showing empathy with his body language. Harry mimicked him.

 

“We’re very sorry for your loss, Sir,” Harry added, and Michael’s gaze slipped over him and caught on his forehead, on the lightning bolt scar. Harry resisted the urge to flatten his fringe over it. “We are treating her death as suspicious, and there is an ongoing investigation regarding it.”

 

“You’re the Potter boy,” Michael said quietly, and Harry nodded once, giving him a weak smile. “Iona used to talk about you,” he added, and Draco cleared his throat quietly. The previous times they had been to do this, it was usually Draco who was commented on, not Harry.

 

“We do have to ask, Sir, do you know of anyone who might wish to cause your wife harm? Did she have any enemies?” Draco asked, bringing the conversation back to its usual pattern, and Michael shook his head, still looking dumbstruck.

 

“No, none. She… well, she was a Witch, and I’m not the slightest bit magical. When the War took off, she packed up me and the kids and we fled to France. But she stayed, said she wanted to help,” he said, and Harry frowned.

 

“Your wife was a convicted Death Eater, Mr MacGrory,” he said, and Michael shook his head.

 

“She was in the wrong place at the wrong time, I swear it. She would never have done anything that could have harmed the kids. They were devastated when she went to Azkaban, and they were excited when she came home a few weeks ago,” he said, and Harry nodded. He looked around the room.

 

“Where are your children, Mr MacGrory?” he asked, and the man blinked and looked around, as though he was confused, but then he remembered.

 

“Tabitha’s at Hogwarts, third year Hufflepuff. And the boys, Daniel and Joshua, they're at school today. We’re expecting Daniel to get his Hogwarts letter in the summer,” he said, and his voice caught on ‘ _we_ ’. Harry felt a pang of sympathy for him.

 

“Was your wife invited anywhere yesterday? To see an old friend, perhaps?” Draco asked and Michael thought for a moment. He stood up and went to the mantle piece, picking a piece of folded parchment off it, before holding it out for them to read. Draco drew his wand out of his jacket and used a small charm to pull the parchment gently from Michael’s hands, but not actually touch the parchment. A twist of his wand and the letter opened, allowing them both to read it.

 

‘ _Dear Iona,_

 

_I’m so glad to hear you have been released, and early as well! I have not heard from many of our old friends, and it was kind of you to write to me. Would you like to come for dinner next Tuesday? I await your return Owl._

 

_\- I’_

 

There was nothing further after the initial, and Harry studied the letter a few more times before looking at Draco, who returned his look - _I._ Like the appointment in Piers Braith’s diary. Harry turned to look at Michael and it appeared as the shock was wearing off him and he looked like a man broken. He had sat back in the armchair and had his head in his hands.

 

“Do you mind if we take this into evidence?” Draco asked, and Michael shook his head, his greying brown hair shuddering with the motion.

 

“Do you want me to call someone for you, Mr MacGrory?” Harry asked, and Michael looked up at him, obviously confused to hear a Wizard mention calling someone. Harry gave him a small smile. “I was raised in a Muggle home, Sir, I know how to use a phone,” he said, and Michael nodded before sitting up.

 

“No, no need. Iona’s parents were killed during the War - as punishment for getting me and the kids out, I suppose - and my parents… I’d rather speak to them myself,” he said. Harry nodded.

 

“Do you want us to arrange for Tabitha to be brought home from Hogwarts?” Harry asked as well, and Michael nodded. He gestured to the small snuffbox of Floo powder on the mantelpiece.

 

“I could never get the hang of it,” he explained as Harry rose and took a pinch of powder, before kneeling at the hearth and withdrawing his wand from his jacket. He could cast _Incendio_ wandlessly, but he thought it might be too much for Michael MacGrory, so he instead used his wand and then tossed the Floo powder in, sticking his head into the flames while calling out for the Headmaster's Office at Hogwarts.

 

The familiar room, so similar and yet so different from Dumbledore’s tenure, came spinning into view, and Harry called out for Professor, now Headmistress, McGonagall, who appeared at the side of his vision. She looked startled by the sight of him, but then knelt on a padded cushion in front of the hearth and smiled at him. Harry couldn’t help but smile back at her. She hadn’t aged much in the previous years, her greying hair pulled back in a tight bun and more lines on her face, but Harry recognised the look in her eyes when she saw him. It had taken him a long time to accept and embrace the fact that Minerva McGonagall had a great deal of affection for him, maybe even loved him like a son, and Harry again felt a pang that he hadn’t seen her recently.

 

“Mr Potter! What can I do for you?” she asked in her soft Scottish burr, and Harry felt suddenly homesick.

 

“I’m calling on Auror business, Professor McGonagall. Could you please send Tabitha MacGrory through? Unfortunately her Mother was found dead this morning,” he said, and McGonagall looked shocked, one hand going to her chest, but she nodded and agreed to send Tabitha through as soon as she could. They ended the call without saying anything further.

 

“In cases involving children, we usually ask one of our Family Liason Officers to come through. Would you like me to ask one over now?” Draco asked Michael, who nodded. “And your sons, can we arrange for someone to collect them from school?” he asked, and Michael looked confused by that. Draco gave him a sympathetic glance. “We have contacts in the Muggle police who can act on our behalf. It would be one of them who would collect the boys, if you’d like me to arrange it?” Michael nodded. Draco gave Harry a long look and then stepped outside the room to summon the Family Liason Officers with his Patronus. Harry, however, lingered, trying to offer comfort with his presence. Michael looked over at him and ran a hand through his hair.

 

“She used to talk about you, Iona,” he said, and Harry raised an eyebrow. Michael continued, “She used to tell the kids bedtime stories about you. How you stopped You-Know-Who as a baby, and how you brought hope to the Wizarding World. When the War started, she used to tell them that you were going to protect them, protect all of us,” Michael said, and Harry nodded.

 

“I’ve tried,” he said quietly, and Michael’s face suddenly became stony, anger bleeding through into every muscle.

 

“Not hard enough,” he said angrily and then he pushed himself up and out of the armchair and stormed off into the kitchen, the barks of the little dog following him. Harry felt like someone had punched him in the gut.

 

**{#}**

 

They were present when Tabitha MacGrory came tumbling out of the Floo, looking confused, and when Daniel and Joshua MacGrory were escorted into the house by Muggle policemen. They were present when the Family Liason Officer, a middle-aged woman named Matilda who looked like she gave excellent hugs, sat the children down on the sofa and told them that their Mother was dead.

 

They left when the screaming and the crying began.

 

They were silent on the walk back to the bullpen, and Harry’s skin crawled. He wanted something to hold onto, something to ground himself with, because he blamed himself. Maybe Michael MacGrory had been right - maybe Harry wasn’t trying hard enough. He had held his own prejudices for so long, had been blinded like so much of the Auror department, that maybe he wasn’t any different to them.

 

He was jerked out of his thoughts by an elbow to the ribs. He looked up and Draco was giving him a quizzical look. Harry looked around and then grabbed Draco’s sleeve and pulled him into a small alcove just off the main corridor. It was sheltered enough to give them some privacy, at least for a few minutes.

 

“What is it?” Draco asked, straightening his jacket. One of the seams on a cuff was starting to fray. Harry resisted the urge to pluck at the thread.

 

“Michael MacGrory said something to me,” Harry admitted, and Draco raised an eyebrow. Harry looked to the sloped ceiling of the alcove, and tried to breath through the clenching feeling in his chest. “He said I hadn’t done enough to protect people,” he murmured, and Draco’s hands were on his chest, his jaw, tilting his face down so their gazes could lock.

 

“You _died_ ,” Draco said quietly, his voice both laced with both horror and awe. Harry realised they had never spoken about this. Surely Narcissa Malfoy had told her son, and he was certainly present when Harry testified at her trial, telling them Wizengamot how the wife of one of the topmost Death Eaters had lied to her husband’s Master in the hopes of saving her son, and by doing so, had saved the Wizarding World. But maybe Draco needed to hear it from Harry, too.

 

“I did,” Harry admitted, swallowing. His throat clicked audibly. He remembered the quiet, the peace of sitting on Platform 9 ¾ with Dumbledore. “I died, and then I came back.” There was a long pause while Draco weighed his words.

 

“I can’t think of a greater sacrifice,” he finally said, and Harry blinked rapidly, his eyes suddenly burning. Draco smiled at him and ran a thumb over his cheek, catching on the corner of his mouth, before dropping his hands and stepping out of the alcove. The corridor was still clear, and so Harry took a deep steadying breath before following, and they continued their walk back to the bullpen in silence.

 

As soon as they walked in, a memo crashed into the side of Malfoy’s face. He winced and caught it as it tumbled through the air, unfolding it and tilting it slightly so Harry could read it to.

 

‘ _Come to Forensics ASAP. Hair is weird,_ ’ was all it said, but Greengrass’ initials were in the bottom corner. Draco folded it again and slid it into one of the pockets of his transfigured jacket.

 

“Let’s go,” he said quietly and began making his way around the edge of the desks. Harry followed and glanced at the clock - it was already past lunchtime, and it looked like their day was only really getting started.

 

“Oi, Potter!” came a call across the bullpen, and Harry looked up. Robson waved at him from his desk, gesturing him over and Harry went, frowning. “Letter came for you, thought it might be urgent,” Robson said as he approached, pointing at Harry’s letter tray. There was a neatly folded letter in there, a slim piece of twine holding it closed. Harry picked it up and pocketed it, smiling at Robson in thanks. He jogged back to catch up with Draco, who was hovering at the top of the corridor leading to the Portkey door.

 

“Who’s it from?” he asked, and Harry shrugged as they started their walk down the corridor, shoulders occasionally brushing.

 

“No idea. I’ll have a look in a bit,” he said as they reached the Portkey door and stepped through.

 

**{#}**

 

“It’s not human hair,” Greengrass said as they entered the morgue. She was, as she mostly always was when they visited her in this room, hunched over the mauled remains of their latest victim. Harry fought hard to not recall the screams of Iona’s MacGrory’s children.

 

“What?” Draco asked, sounding shocked. “Do you mean it’s cat hair or the like?” he replied, and Greengrass straightened.

 

“I mean, it’s not _human_ hair. To be more precise, it’s not like any human hair I’ve ever seen,” Greengrass explained, and she picked up her wand from the tray of instruments and waved it. A small metal dish came floating over from one of the shelves at the back of the room, and Harry fought hard not to cringe, expecting to see something bloody inside. Instead, as it stopped in front of them and bobbed gently, Harry could see that it was a single strand of hair, curled around itself. It was long and white.

 

“What is it then?” Draco asked and Greengrass waited until they were both looking at her, obviously confused, before answering.

 

“Seal hair,” she said, and the words hung in the air. Harry stared at her. She stepped forward and flicked her wand - the hair uncurled itself and hung in the air. “To be more precise, this human-looking hair has more in common with seal pelt than with actual human hair. It’s the most bizarre thing I’ve ever seen,” she said, sounding pleased, and Harry felt his stomach drop.

 

_A Selkie…_

 

He fumbled with the pocket of his jacket, pulling out the letter and ripping the twine off, ignoring Greengrass’ cries about contamination. Draco was looking at him, his face pale, as Harry tried to open the letter without ripping it.

 

It was a letter from Lachlan Douglas.

 

 _‘Dear_ _Mr Potter,_

 

_The day I wrote back to you, I received word from the Faroe Islands Clan regarding their missing member. They had told me that it was a young female who went by the name of Isla. She was swept out to sea in a storm nearly six years ago, and they thought her to be dead._

 

_I don’t know if this is of any relevance to your case, but if you receive word of her, please let me know. I will inform her Clan, who are very worried about her._

 

_Sincerely,_

_Lachlan Douglas_ ’

 

Harry nearly dropped the letter.

 

I.

 

Isla.

 

Isla Yaxley.

 

He thrust the letter out for Draco to take, who read it so quickly that by the time he had reached the end, Harry had barely taken two steps towards the door.

 

“Where are you going?” Greengrass shouted after them as they sprinted out of the morgue, pushing through to the Portkey Door, not breaking stride as they made their way back to the bullpen. They were charging through, Harry’s heart racing, Draco’s face set in a determined expression, when a shout stopped them.

 

“Malfoy! Potter!” It was Lynch, who was standing up from her desk. They both stopped, and Harry’s fists were clenched because his every instinct was to keep running, to go straight to Blackpool. Lynch’s expression made him stop. “We’ve had a report of a recently released Death Eater who failed to turn up to a parole meeting,” she said and Draco, his voice in a forced calm, enquired as to who. Lynch gave him an even look. “Theodore Nott. I believe he was a classmate of yours-?”

 

That was all she could say before they took off running again. Harry’s shoulder caught Thatcher and sent her staggering back into Ross’ desk, but he didn’t stop to apologise. They reached the lift and Draco hammered at the button for the atrium, cursing colourfully.

 

When the lift finally moved, they took a second to breathe.

 

“She’ll be at the house,” Harry said, his voice catching as he tried to catch his breath. Draco nodded, running one hand through his hair, before plucking the slim black ribbon off his wrist and tying his hair back, away from his face.

 

“Do not go running into this wands blazing, Harry,” Draco said quietly and Harry could hear why in his voice. _Don’t get yourself hurt_ . _Don’t get yourself killed_ . _You are the only thing keeping me going right now_. Harry nodded and resisted the urge to reach out to Draco, to touch him in some way and offer comfort.

 

But before he could do anything, the lift dinged and then they were crashing through the atrium, pushing past those taking a late lunch break to cries of indignation.

 

They didn’t speak to Wu and Hussain, who looked interested as they practically flung themselves onto the Apparition dias’. With a nod, Harry and Draco spun on the spot and both disappeared with a _crack_.

 

**{#}**

 

They landed right outside the Yaxley’s house, hidden from the street by the overgrown hedges. The lights were dark in the house, and though it was only mid-afternoon, the sun was already low in the sky, casting long shadows over the weatherworn roof. Draco glanced over at Harry, who nodded in return, and in sync they both stepped towards the sun-bleached front door. They moved quietly, crouching a little to evenly distribute their body weight as their training had drilled into them. They each pulled their wands from their jackets, and held them at chest height, ready to stun at a second’s notice.

 

The door was slightly ajar, but the lock looked like it had been pulled open violently, as the wood on the doorframe was scuffed. Harry reached up a hand and paused when Draco shot him a look, before Draco raised his own wand.

 

“ _Revelio Incantato_ ,” he murmured and a web of golden light shot out the end of his wand. It hit the door and then rapidly spread, covering the whole door and its frame, before disintegrating. Draco nodded, confirming that no spells had been cast at the door, either to keep people in, or keep them out.

 

Harry raised his hand again and slowly pushed open the door, keeping it steady so as to avoid any creaking. The door swung open noiselessly and they stepped into the hallway.

 

It was even messier than it had been before. The newspapers that had been part of the junk pile in the living room were strewn across the corridor, and a bloody handprint was smeared on the wall the staircase was against. The living room doorframe looked at risk of falling off its hinges, as it appeared like it had been pulled from the wall in a struggle. Harry gave Draco a glance, and the other man just nodded once at him, his expression set.

 

They moved together throughout the lower floor, treading quietly and carefully. The living room looked like an explosion had gone off, the pile of rubbish that had been on the coffee table now flung to the four corners of the room, the sofa overturned and the armchair knocked back so it was leaning against the wall.

 

The dining room was in a similar state of chaos, the dusty chairs knocked to the ground and long gouge marks in the wood of the dining table. A mirror that had hung over the fireplace was shattered, the glass covering the floor and the frame hanging crookedly from the wall.

 

The kitchen was otherwise untouched, but Harry knocked Draco’s hand and pointed out the tray set for tea - tea for two, it seemed, if the twin cups and saucers were anything to go by.

 

There was a scrambling sound upstairs and a loud bang followed by what sounded like a snarl, and they both jerked to look at the staircase. No one was coming down it, and so they made their way to the staircase, stepping quietly. Harry turned to Draco on the bottom step.

 

“Go get backup,” he whispered and Draco looked both offended and aghast.

 

“I am _not_ leaving you here,” he hissed back, and Harry glanced up the staircase as there was another bang and a wail of fear. He roughly pushed Draco’s shoulder and pointed to the door, before turning and heading up the stairs, ignoring the feel of Draco’s fingers just missing his arm as he walked away, treading lightly on the steps.

 

The upper floor was even more dimly lit than downstairs, and the floor was also covered in a layer of detritus accumulated over the years. Harry picked his way across it, careful to stay out of sight of doorways as he edged around the landing. There was a noise behind him and he turned, wand raised, only to find Draco behind him, his eyes narrowed. Harry wanted to send him back downstairs, out of harm's way, but he knew Draco would only follow him back up here, so instead he raised a finger to his lips to signal quiet, and gestured for Draco to head one way around the landing while Harry went the other. Draco nodded, and raised his wand before sidling away.

 

The first bedroom Harry came across was empty, covered in a thick layer of dust which looked undisturbed. The doorframe had a smear of blood across it though, and Harry followed the direction it was facing, noticing drops of blood on the carpet as he moved.

 

There was another bang, another yell, and it sounded closer than ever. The door to the bedroom at the end of the hallway was closed, but there was blood smeared on the door knob. Harry paused, weighing his options - he could get Draco, enter the room together, but another scream struck that option off the list. Whatever was happening to Theodore Nott, Harry had no time to waste.

 

He braced himself, raising his wand and flexing his free hand, before landing one firm kick on the bedroom door, sending it flying open.

 

His eyes took a second to adjust to the darkness of the room, but it was a second too long. Before he could brace himself, she was on him, snarling into his face, her teeth eerily elongated, her eyes turned completely black.

 

“ISLA!” Harry shouted, forcing her back. She, thankfully, hadn’t knocked him off his feet, otherwise he was sure her teeth would have been in his neck by now. He pushed his free hand towards her, using his magic to push her away, and she went flying back into the bedroom, landing against the opposite wall with a _thud_. It didn’t stop her though, and she was on her feet once again, a rabid expression on her face.

 

Behind him, Harry heard Draco running towards him and he threw out an arm, catching Draco across the chest and stopping him from entering the bedroom.

 

“Isla, let Theodore go!” Harry said loudly but firmly, trying to summon the human part of her he had met before, though nothing of her remained in Isla’s cruel black eyes. Draco strained against his arm, but Harry remained fast.

 

“He knows!” Isla snarled at him, gesturing with one long finger that ended in a horribly sharp nail to a shut door on the wall next to them. There was a small noise from inside, and Harry realised Theodore Nott had hidden himself in there, trying to save himself. “He knows where it is!” her voice sounded like waves crashing against rocks, ragged and hoarse and not of this world. It made the hairs on the back of Harry’s neck stand on end.

 

“What does he know?” Harry asked, keeping his wand high and his hand at his side. He tried to keep his voice calm and even, but his heart was pounding in his chest. He could feel the press of Draco’s free arm against his side and knew he had his wand out too, ready to strike.

 

“Where my skin is!” Isla said, and a shiver went down Harry’s spine. She was a Selkie after all. There was a wail from behind the door.

 

“I don’t know!” came the cry, and Draco stiffened next to Harry. Isla, on the other head, let out another ear-splitting scream and then launched herself at the door, her long nails clawing at the wood, tearing it apart before Harry’s eyes.

 

“Isla, stop! He doesn’t know!” Harry shouted but Isla ignored him, her teeth bared and awful in the dim light.

 

“We need to get Nott,” Draco hissed, trying to duck under Harry’s arm, but Harry caught him again.

 

“If you try and get between her and the door, she’ll rip you- DRACO, NO!” Draco had managed to push Harry’s arm aside, and was grappling with Isla, trying to fight her away from the door, with little success. She rounded on him, swiping at him with her claw-like hands, and Draco fell back with a yell, one arm rising to cover his face against the onslaught. Harry raised his hand again and slammed Isla back into the wall, but she had already landed a few blows on Draco, who had blood trickling down his face from three ragged cuts just under his right eye.

 

“What happened to your skin, Isla?” Harry asked, trying to distract her, stepping into the room to pull Draco steadily onto his feet, his eyes still tracked on Isla, before once again stepping in front of him to shield him. Draco’s breathing was ragged, but he stayed there.

 

“He stole it!” Isla howled, looking agonised. “I was resting, I had been swept away in the storm and while I slept, he stole my skin and hid it! Forced me to come to this house, made me his wife, and then he _died._ ” Her voice softened, her eyes seemed to clear, the white coming back to them, and her teeth withdrew, though they still looked unnatural, dangerous. Harry tried to keep her talking.

 

“And why these people, Isla? Why have you killed them?” he asked, and Isla blinked rapidly, looking very scared and young suddenly.

 

“I thought they knew. He was their leader, they used to come here all the time to talk to him! I thought he would have told one of them where he had hidden my skin,” she told him sadly, and a few tears fell from her eyes. “I just want to go _home_. I want to go back to the sea, I feel as though I’m going mad without it!”

 

Harry remembered Lachlan Douglas’ first letter. ‘… _though so many of us are reluctant to marry humans, as it can mean never returning to the sea, which can cause madness in Selkies._ ’

 

This must be what Lachlan had meant - this madness, this violence. Harry thought rapidly as Isla’s eyes threatened to turn black again, her nails clicking as she flexed her hands.

 

“If I find your skin, will you go?” he asked, and Draco inhaled sharply behind him, but said nothing. Isla eyed him, breathing raggedly, clearly mistrustful. Harry repeated himself. “If I find your skin, will you _go_ , Isla? Will you leave Blackpool and never return?” And she nodded slowly. “Will you let Nott go right now, if I promise to find your skin here, today,” Harry said, and Isla’s scowled, baring her teeth.

 

“No - he knows!” she said, shouting at the bathroom door. There was another small noise from Nott barricaded inside. Draco grabbed Harry’s arm from behind him and leaned in closer, to talk into his ear.

 

“Go, find her skin. I’ll stay here, I’ll protect Nott,” he said quietly, and Harry shook his head.

 

“Absolutely not, I am not leaving you here on your own,” he replied, and Draco huffed a small laugh, which Harry felt brush against his neck. It sent a shiver down his spine.

 

“You don’t have a choice. You need to find her skin, otherwise we’ll all be dead,” he murmured, and Harry had to agree - he couldn’t see a way out of this without finding that skin, and who knew how long that could take? He turned slightly, keeping Isla in his line of sight but talking directly to Draco.

 

“Do not be a self-sacrificing Gryffindor about this,” he said firmly, and Draco gave him a bloody smile.

 

“No, I’ll leave that up to you,” he said back, and Harry, without thinking about it, leaned forward and kissed Draco, a hand cupping the back of his head, bringing him closer. They broke apart after only a second and Harry kept their foreheads pressed together, even as he could feel the sticky warmth of Draco’s blood smearing against his cheek.

 

“Stay safe,” he said, and then he stepped away and out of the room, certain that Draco wouldn’t put himself in harm's way, but too terrified to think of what might happen if he did.

 

Harry started downstairs, right where they entered. He cast ‘ _Revelio Incantato_ ’ again and again as he moved through the rooms, the golden web of light shooting forward and then fading out in every room, against every wall and corner that Harry thought to check. He tried the staircase, thinking one of the wooden panels might give way, but they revealed nothing. He had a horrible feeling that even if Yaxley had hidden Isla’s skin in this house, the enchantment keeping the secret place hidden might have failed, and sealed the skin inside the walls for ever.

 

He climbed the stairs, casting at them one at a time, trying to see if any of them were trick stairs, but none of them were. He tried the smallest bedroom, which was covered in dust, a battered crib in the corner of the room. He glanced into it and saw a tangle of bloodstained sheets and promised to come back to have another look.

 

The second bedroom next to the Master where Draco, Isla and Nott were revealed nothing, as did the bathroom. It left the attic room as the final place to try.

 

The door was locked, but Harry waved a hand and the lock clicked open. The staircase leading from the doorway up the stairs was caked in dust, undisturbed for so many years, and the dust rose and danced around him as Harry walked up the narrow staircase, catching on the dim light from one grimy window set into the slanting ceiling.

 

The attic room was an office of some kind. Bookcases lined the room, short to fit under the slope of the ceiling, and there was a large wooden desk set in the middle of the room, a wide and worn looking armchair behind it. Papers were scattered over the surface, the writing hidden by the layer of dust which lay on top, but it looked like Yaxley had left in a hurry. Had his arm burned when he received the summons from Voldemort that final night? Had he laid down his quill on a half-written letter and left the room, calling “ _Goodbye!_ ” to his captured wife and disappearing into the night, never to be seen again?

 

Harry cast ‘ _Revelio Incantato_ ’ around the door. The desk sparked and then faded in the golden web, and the short bookcases too, except for one in line with the desk. There, the web stayed and glowed, as if pleased with itself for finding something. Harry hurried forward, kneeling on the dusty carpet in front of the bookcase. He pulled the books off the shelves, hoping one might be a lever of some description, something to make a hidden panel to open, but soon the shelves were empty and nothing had been revealed.

 

Harry sat back on his heels and thought, breathing deeply through his nose, trying to force down the sneeze that was threatening to happen, due to all the dust in the air. He raised his empty hand and held it out in front of him, trying to call on the Auror training he had received.

 

There had been one class that only he and two others had attended in their final year of training. The instructor was an Unspeakable who did not give his name, and Harry had never seen him since. The lessons were hard, draining, and Harry used to fall asleep every night before his head hit the pillow after them. But it was the only thing that would work.

 

Harry opened his eyes and _pulled_ , twisting his hand towards himself. A series of golden links appeared, hovering over the upper shelf of the bookcase - wards. With his fist still clenched at his chest, Harry studied them, trying to find the weak link, feeling a trickle of sweat make its way down the back of his neck despite it being cold in the attic. He finally found one, a chink in the ward’s armour, in the upper left corner, and he dropped his wand to use his other hand to reach out and touch the chink. It felt like ice burning his fingers but Harry grit his teeth and held on, forcing his own magic down and out of his hand, forcing the links of the wards to crack. Harry kept pushing, forcing more and more magic into the wards, overwhelming them and himself, his arm shaking, his breath ragged, sweat dripping into his eyes. Finally, the wards shattered and gave way and Harry fell back onto the carpet, sending a cloud of dust up around him.

 

He lay there for a second, exhaustion sweeping over him. Wards could only be manipulated by direct magic, and only the strongest wizards could take down the wards of others. Harry had spent a lot of magical energy, and he felt it.

 

Forcing himself to sit up, he reached out his hands and felt the back of the upper shelf, until he found a knot in the wood that hadn’t been visible before. He pressed it and the wooden back of the shelf popped out into his hands. He set it on the floor and reached into the hole it had revealed.

 

His hand touched something soft and silky to touch, though it was covered in dust like everything else in this house. He pulled it out and a beautiful grey seal skin unfurled in his hands. There was even a white streak down its back that echoed the colour of Isla’s hair.

 

Harry picked up his wand and stood, his legs trembling. He felt a headache pressing against his temples, and he made his legs move towards the stairs, which he descended slowly, leaning heavily on the bannister built into the walls. He had to keep going, he had to get back to Draco and Nott before Isla’s patience grew too thin.

 

He staggered when he came to the landing, and his knees nearly gave way. He took a second to steady himself before walking to the Master Bedroom, the skin held out in front of him as a shield.

 

Isla screamed when she saw what he was holding - he didn’t know if it was out of elation or fury. She had been by the back wall, and Draco had been stood between her and the bathroom door, his wand raised and ready to use. Isla hurried forward, but Harry withdrew the skin and held it closer to himself. He looked at her and she had tears in her eyes.

 

“Please,” she whispered. “Please, you have to give it to me. I can’t take it from you, you need to give it back. Please, _please_ , give it back!” she said, her hands clenched together in front of her, pleading. Harry looked at Draco, who was watching them both with the look that he was ready to fight, even if Harry wasn’t.

 

“Get Nott somewhere safe,” Harry said, before grabbing Isla’s wrist and turning on his heels and Disapparating away, Draco’s shout of confusion echoing behind him.

 

**{#}**

 

They landed in water. Harry staggered upon landing, and let go of Isla’s wrist. She fell to her knees sobbing, sea water soaking her ragged dress.

 

“Please, you have to give it to me,” she moaned, clutching at her sodden clothes, looking up at Harry. His vision swam as he tried to focus on her, and he held the skin tighter.

 

“Do you promise to go?” he said quietly, and Isla nodded vigorously, her hair flying. Her hands were human again, her teeth and eyes, too, and she looked like a scared and desperate young woman. Harry’s heart clenched - how desperate must she have been to do what she had done, all to go home?

 

“Yes, yes, I’ll go now, please, give it to me,” she said, reaching up one trembling hand to the skin. Harry hesitated and then held it out. Isla had snatched it from him in an instant and then she was gone. Harry stumbled backwards as a sleek grey seal barked at him, her black eyes warm and thankful, before she made her way out into the sea, at first splashing and paddling, and then smoothly gliding out into the steel grey waves before she disappeared from his view.

 

Harry stumbled again and then sat down heavily, the sea lapping soothingly at him as he watched the waves come and go. He was tired, so tired, but at last - it was over.

 

**{#}**

 

He didn’t have the energy to Apparate back to Yaxley’s home, and so he walked slowly back, stopping every now and then to breathe, to steady his shaking legs. The walk took twice as long as it had done the first day they had met Isla, and Harry thought back. Could they have known, then, what she truly was? But in hindsight, the clues had been there all along.

 

He staggered onto the path leading up to the front door to see that there was a group of people already inside the house, dressed in Field Scarlets. Draco’s summons to the Ministry had finally brought backup. Harry staggered inside, strangely unnoticed, and followed the sound of familiar shouting towards the dining room.

 

“I WANT THE STREETS OF BLACKPOOL, NO, _ENGLAND_ SEARCHED NOW, _”_ Draco was shouting at a group of Field Aurors, who all looked distinctly unimpressed in being spoken to that way by an Investigative colleague. “HARRY POTTER IS OUT THERE RIGHT NOW WITH A DERANGED MURDERER, FINDING HIM IS A PRIORITY.” Harry rapped his knuckles on the dining room door, drawing their attention.

 

“No need, I’m here,” he called and there was a rumble of laughter from the Field Aurors, whereas Draco just looked shocked. Someone had healed the cuts on his face, but there was still some dried blood crusted on his jaw. Theodore Nott, looking pale and shellshocked, was sat on one of the righted dining room chairs, a Medi-wizard at his side, and even he looked relieved to see Harry.

 

“Is it true ye go’ taken hostage by a _girl_ , Potter?” Thatcher sneered from by the wrecked mirror, and Harry gave Draco a quick glance - Draco subtly nodded, encouraging Harry to go along with whatever it was that Thatcher was saying.

 

“She was a Selkie, Thatcher, I’d like to see you face down six inch teeth,” he replied coolly, and Draco nodded firmly. Harry continued to speak. “She took her skin and dived into the ocean. She was a seal and long gone before I could even get my wand out. I don’t think you’ll find her again, unless you want to dredge the Irish Sea.”

 

“Did ye see this, Mr Nott?” Thatcher asked, obviously mistrustful. Nott looked up from where the Medi-wizard was dabbing at a cut on his arm with essence of dittany.

 

“I was barricaded in the bathroom, Auror. I was too busy making sure I wasn’t going to be next on that beach to listen to what was happening outside,” he replied easily, and Harry caught his eye briefly. Nott bowed his head again. Thatcher seemed to deflate a little, obviously unhappy.

 

“This is still a crime scene, even if our perpetrator has gone, so could you all please go and secure the evidence?” Draco snapped at the assembled Aurors, who grudgingly left the dining room, muttering between themselves. Draco marched over to Harry and grabbed his arm, pulling him through the house and back out to the front drive, tucking them into a corner where the hedges obscured them from view.

 

“What-?” Harry began to ask but he was cut short by Draco pulling him forward into a kiss. It was searing, letting Harry feel the extent of Draco’s anxiety about his disappearance and the relief of his return. Harry returned it with enthusiasm, winding his arms around Malfoy’s back, pulling him closer.

 

Eventually, Draco stepped back, pressing a hand to his mouth to cover his reddened lips. “We have to go back inside, we need to debrief,” he said quietly, and Harry nodded, reaching for his hand. Draco entwined their fingers and Harry gave his hand a squeeze. Draco let go of a shuddering breath. “Now I can imagine how Miss Weasley felt. The idea of anything happening to you…” he said quietly, and Harry nodded.

 

“I know. I’m sorry,” he replied, though he knew his apology could not make up for those minutes of fear. Draco nodded sadly and let go of his hand. He couldn’t quite meet Harry’s eyes, and he tilted his head back over one shoulder, back towards the house.  

 

“We’ll talk later,” he said, and then he turned on his heel and disappeared back inside. Harry took a minute to compose himself, tilting his face up to look at the rapidly darkening sky, and he saw, briefly, Thatcher’s face looking down at him from the window of the Master Bedroom, and his heart sank.

 

He would have to face this sooner or later, he thought, and then he followed Draco back into the house.

 

**{#}**

 

Lynch had been an odd mix of furious and proud of them once they got back to the bullpen later that evening. Most of the Aurors had already gone home, though a skeleton crew was still scouring Yaxley’s house for evidence, though most of it had already been collected and sent to Forensics.

 

Ross had pulled Harry aside soon after he had walked back in to tell him that the bundle of bloodied blankets had been wrapped around a foetal skeleton, which had gone to the morgue. Apparently at some point Isla Yaxley had given birth to a stillborn child. Harry felt even more sympathy for her upon learning this news, and he had sent a memo to Greengrass to let him know when the body was due to be released - he would find a good resting place for it.

 

Robards had come out of his office once Lynch had finished their debrief to congratulate them both on solving the case, and then had asked Draco to come into his office. With Robards’ back turned, Draco had grabbed Harry’s arm and told him to go home, and he would find him later. Harry had only nodded as Draco had turned on his heel and followed the Head of the DMLE into his office, the door closing firmly behind them.

 

Harry arrived back at Grimmauld Place only to find that Ron and Hermione were waiting for him. He dropped his satchel to the ground and allowed Hermione to hug him, turning his head to avoid a mouthful of hair.  She smelled like parchment and ink, and Harry felt comfort from the familiarity of that smell. Behind her, Ron stepped forward and clapped Harry on his shoulder, giving him a half-smile, though he was obviously also concerned.

 

“You heard from Croaker then?” Harry asked, and Hermione stepped back, nodding.

 

“We’ve been waiting for you to get back, we wanted to check you were alright,” Hermione said, and Harry nodded. Ron stepped forward and helped him take his Auror jacket off as his fingers fumbled on the buttons.

 

“I’m fine, just tired,” he said, allowing Ron to take the jacket off him and hang it on the coat rack. Hermione ushered him into the kitchen, as if it wasn’t his own home, one hand on his back as if to keep him upright. The delicious smell of food drifted up from the stove, where Kreacher was stirring a pot. Harry’s stomach rumbled as he lowered himself into his usual seat, Ron sitting down next to him while Hermione sat opposite Ron.

 

“Your Spaghetti Bolognese will be ready in thirty minutes, Mistress Granger,” Kreacher said to Hermione, bowing to her. She gave him a wide, if slightly pained, smile.

 

“Thank you, Kreacher. Please take a bowl for yourself,” she said and while Kreacher nodded, Harry knew he had no intention of doing so.

 

Sitting in the kitchen, Harry allowed his body to relax. He was still exhausted from breaking the wards on Yaxley’s hiding place, but dinner sounded amazing right now. He allowed himself to close his eyes slightly, feeling Ron’s body heat radiating next to him, a comforting and familiar feeling. Hermione kept up a steady stream of conversation with Ron, though occasionally saying Harry’s name to keep him awake. Kreacher had opened a bottle of wine and had poured it into three wine glasses, but Harry didn’t touch his as he listened to Ron and Hermione talk, comforted by their presence.

 

Half an hour later, Kreacher had just set down three steaming bowls in front of them when Hermione asked him a question directly.

 

“What happened?” she asked, picking up her fork and twirling it through her food, while Ron picked up his and began shovelling food onto it. Harry took a deep breath and explained.

 

He started from the beginning, when he and Malfoy were paired up, how it had taken him so long to trust Malfoy’s instincts and follow him, but how he had suspicions about Isla Yaxley from their first meeting.

 

“Only cos you thought she was the wife of a Death Eater, mate,” Ron said through a mouthful of food, and Hermione gave him a warning look. Ron swallowed and said nothing further, and Harry continued telling his story, though he left out the parts about him and Draco. When he had finished, his throat dry and exhaustion creeping up on him again, he picked up his fork and began to eat his lukewarm dinner while Hermione and Ron took in everything he had said.

 

“Malfoy lied for you?” Ron asked, and Hermione frowned at him.

 

“It sounds like you’ve become more than partners, Harry,” she said, picking up her wine glass that Kreacher had refilled with a rich red while they had been eating. Harry was about to reply when there was a knock on the front door.

 

“Kreacher, go answer the door please,” Harry said quietly and the house elf scurried out of the room, leaving them. Harry picked up his fork and took another bite, looking up as the kitchen door opened again to reveal Draco standing behind Kreacher, looking concerned. Harry dropped his fork and went to stand, his legs trembling again for being forced to take his weight.

 

“Draco,” he said quietly, and Draco cast a look at Ron and Hermione in their seats, both of them looking astonished.

 

“I hope I’m not interrupting,” he said politely, and Harry shook his head.

 

“Not at all - do you want some?” Harry asked, and Draco looked awkward. His hands were clasped in front of him, and Harry could see he was wringing his hands nervously.

 

“Actually, could I talk to you, Harry? Privately?” Draco asked, and Harry nodded, stepping away from the table and meeting Draco at the kitchen door, leading them both into the library upstairs. He closed the door behind him, sure that Hermione and Ron wouldn’t try and listen but wanting to give himself and Draco some privacy, at least for a moment.

 

“How did your meeting with Robards go?” Harry asked, sitting down heavily on the sofa. Draco remained standing and he sighed.

 

“He fired me,” he said and Harry sat upright, aghast, energy suddenly flooding back. Draco waved a hand and gave Harry a small smile, which made Harry frown in confusion. He seemed pleased about being fired. “Well, he tried to. I quit before he could. Called him a prejudiced arse and left that transfigured jacket on his desk,” he continued, grinning sheepishly and Harry gave a sharp laugh, shocked but pleased.

 

“But - what will you do?” he asked, and Draco shrugged one shoulder.

 

“I’ll apply for the teaching position at Hogwarts. I have some savings in the meantime,” he added, and Harry remembered their conversation from this morning, though it seemed like so very long ago. His body ached with weariness. Draco shifted uncomfortably where he stood, before speaking again. “There’s one other thing,” he added, before lifting his hair back from his face. A small cut was visible just in his hairline, and Harry frowned at it - had it been a cut from Isla, had the Medi-wizards missed it? But then Harry realised that the hand holding the hair back was Draco’s left, and the slim silver band had gone.

 

“You ended the engagement?” he asked Draco dumbly, and he nodded, coming to sit next to Harry, reaching for his hands. Harry gave them over, feeling like someone had just hit him with a _Confundus_. Maybe he was too tired, as his brain couldn’t quite figure out what was going on.

 

“She threw the ring at me,” Draco said with a little laugh and Harry grinned back, confusion giving way to giddiness. Draco squeezed his hands. “I thought about Isla, about how she had been forced into a marriage and waiting for years to have freedom, and I realised - I can’t do that. I can’t wait for years to fulfil my duties to produce a Malfoy heir, and to only have my freedom after that. I can’t live my life for the Malfoys - I have to live it for me,” he said, his voice breathy and excited and Harry leaned forward and kissed him, holding his hands tightly, both of them relieved and exhausted. Draco laughed against his mouth, a sound of pure excitement, and Harry couldn’t help but agree.

 

They kissed for what felt like hours, pressing closer, hands slipping apart and sliding under shirts and into hair, until there was a sharp knock on the library door.

 

“Harry? Your dinner’s getting cold!” Hermione called from outside the door and Harry sat back, breathing heavily.

 

“Be down in a minute!” he called back and he heard Hermione walk away and head back downstairs. He grinned at Draco, who smiled back, though it seemed like some of his elation had worn off.

 

“What are we going to do now?” he asked, and Harry remembered back to when he had asked that question previously, the confusion and the fear that still lingered, but was replaced by excitement.

 

“Now,” Harry said, standing and pulling Draco to his feet too. Harry took a second to smooth Draco’s hair back from his face, to place another kiss on his lips, to run his thumb across Draco’s jaw. “Now, we have dinner with my friends. And after that, we live for ourselves,”

 

**{#}**

 

_'Daily Prophet - June 17th 2005 - Education_

_Headmistress of Hogwarts, Minerva McGonagall, has today announced that the teaching position of Defence Against the Dark Arts professor is to be filled by Draco Malfoy, former Auror, as of September 1st this year. Current Professor Abraham Mendel, will be taking an extended Sabbatical to Mongolia as part of his research on Ubir._

_Draco Malfoy (25) and his partner, Auror and Boy-Who-Lived Harry Potter (24), are expected to take up residence in Hogsmeade in preparation for his new teaching post.’_

 

Harry read the article again with a smile, and then set the newspaper down and opened it to the middle. He placed one of the glass ornaments from the library mantlepiece on it and began to wrap the newspaper sheet around it, padding it carefully. He picked up his wand and tapped the wrapped ornament once, casting a Cushioning Charm, before putting it in the cardboard box with the others.

 

They had been packing up Grimmauld Place for two days now, and to Harry it looked like they had barely scratched the surface. The hallways were lined with collapsed cardboard boxes, ready to be made to carry their things to their new home, and there were already a number of rubbish bags sat by the front door, ready to be taken to the tip, but there still seemed to be so much left here. Harry would be glad when they were done.

 

“Have you seen my copy of _Break with a Banshee_?” came a call from upstairs, and Harry looked around the library for the book, though he hadn’t seen it in here for several weeks.

 

“No!” he shouted back and there was a put-upon sigh and then the sound of someone coming downstairs, before Draco stepped into the library with a frown, his hands on his hips. His hair was tied back, though tendrils were slipping lose, and there was a smudge of dust on his jaw. Harry thought he looked amazing.

 

“I can’t find it,” he said in frustration, and Harry stood, dusting off the knees of his jeans.

 

“Why do you need it?” he asked and Draco sighed, tucking one of the tendrils back behind his ear. It fell back into his face again and Harry resisted the urge to go over and tuck it behind Draco’s ear himself.

 

“I was going to use it as an introduction to the Third Years - you know, how not to approach a Banshee if one sees one down a dark alley?” Draco replied and Harry laughed. Draco frowned, obviously thinking. “Kreacher might have already packed it. I have to keep reminding him to keep rooms boxed up together, but I don’t think he understands why,”

 

“It’s good he’s helping. I would’ve thought he’d have protested more,” Harry said, and Draco shrugged.

 

“I told him my Mother would visit occasionally, that seemed to sway him,” he said, and Harry grinned. Narcissa Malfoy refused to set foot in Grimmauld Place, claiming to have horrific memories from her childhood of her Aunt Walpurga’s home. Upon reflection of his first visit to Grimmauld Place, Harry could understand why.

 

That didn’t mean he and Narcissa hadn’t met. It had been awkward at first, because Narcissa had struggled to understand why Draco had thrown everything away for Harry Potter of all people, but then Draco had explained that he had thrown everything away for his own sake, and Harry had been an added bonus. Though Draco’s birthday dinner the other week had been a very awkward affair, Narcissa had obviously been pleased by her son’s current state of happiness, albeit still a little confused.

 

They had not told Lucius Malfoy yet, though he was aware that Draco’s engagement had been broken off. They were all in agreement it was best for him not to know, at least not yet.

 

Daphne Greengrass had been cooler with Harry for a number of weeks, following Draco’s abrupt departure from the Auror department and her sister’s heart being crushed, but she had got over it. She now came over with Ron and Hermione on Thursdays for fish and chips, and Harry found he liked her dry wit and sharp remarks.

 

Draco had also come along to his first ever Weasley sunday lunch the other week, and while Harry felt their reception was a little frosty, it helped that Ginny had brought Viktor Krum with her, and her family could see there were no hard feelings between them, especially when Viktor challenged Harry to a Seeker's Game, and Draco and Ginny had heckled them from the sidelines.

 

Life was good. Not perfect, not since Harry had started fighting tooth and nail within the Auror department for discrimination to be stamped out, but better. He had a new partner as well - Dennis Creevey had graduated from Auror training in December and had been partnered with Harry straight away. By looking at Dennis, Harry remembered Colin, and it made him more cautious, made him think ahead. Being on the Investigative team also helped, especially since Dennis liked to analyse things from every which angle, which always gave Harry time to calm down.

 

“Well, if the book’s not here then I’m done packing up my study. I’ll start on our bedroom,” Draco said, turning and making to go. Harry lunged forward, panic surging through his body, and Draco gave him a bemused look.

 

“Actually, why don’t you finish in here? I’ll start on the bedroom,” Harry said in a rush and Draco gave him a sidelong look, obviously suspicious, but then he shrugged.

 

“Fine. But you better not hide my Appleby Arrows things,” Draco said, kneeling down in front of the open box Harry had started to fill. Harry said nothing but left the room, taking the stairs two at a time to reach their bedroom.

 

The bedroom had slowly filled with Draco’s things over the course of the last seven months, until it made sense for Draco to end the lease on his small Camden flat because all of his belongings were at Grimmauld Place anyway. Draco’s shirts and pressed trousers were hung in the large wardrobe next to Harry’s jumpers, his boxers were folded neatly in the drawer next to Harry’s in the chest of drawers, and a pile of books had built up on his bedside table, tottering dangerously.

 

Harry shut the bedroom door behind him, casting a habitual glare at the Appleby Arrows flag hung over Draco’s side of the bed, before rushing over to his sock drawer and yanking it open, rummaging through it. It probably wasn’t the best place to hide this, but Draco wouldn’t ever look in there, Harry thought.

 

With a small noise of triumph, he pulled out a small black box and pressed his thumb to the catch, popping the box open. The ring was white gold with a band of rose gold running through the middle of it. Ron had helped him choose it a few weeks ago, and though Harry was sure he wasn’t going to propose yet (maybe after they had settled in Hogsmeade, and Draco had started his new job), he felt a shiver of excitement whenever he looked at the ring.

 

It hadn’t been hard for Harry to realise he had wanted to spend the rest of his life with Draco. He had seen on a Muggle newspaper months ago that Civil Partnerships were to be allowed from December, and it had got him thinking. He had never been happier in a relationship, never been more comfortable or more himself than he was with Draco. And yes, they fought, shouted at each other across the house whenever Harry came home with a new bruise or cut or broken bone from catching a perpetrator, but they worked past it. They talked about their fears, their hopes, their dreams, and Harry’s favourite time with Draco as when they both sat in the library in the evenings, sharing a bottle of wine or a pot of tea, while Harry listened to the Wireless and Draco read a book. The quiet, simple things.

 

 _Yes_ , Harry thought, shutting the ring box with a _snap_ and putting it into his pocket. It was time they started living life for themselves now.

 

**{THE END}**

**Author's Note:**

>  **Author's Notes:**  
>  Many thanks to [Razielim](https://razielim.tumblr.com/) and [Apriicat](http://apriicat.tumblr.com/) for all their hard work in producing these fantastic pieces of art to go along with my words - I feel very lucky to have been paired with two amazing artists! 
> 
> Thank you to the Mods for hosting this Big Bang! This story has been sitting in my head for two years, so I'm thankful to have the chance to release it out into the world. 
> 
> You can find me at [tumblr](http://dwell-the-brave.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/dwell_the_brave)!
> 
> As a note, the title comes from the song 'Still Catch the Tide' by Talis Kimberley and it's about - you guessed it - Selkies.
> 
>  
> 
>  **Artists Notes:**  
> [Razielim](https://razielim.tumblr.com/)\- dwell_the_brave crafted a fic that spanned a whole spectrum of vulnerable moments between the leads, and I hope I've captured and conveyed some of that to the viewer. Thank you for your enthusiasm, dwell_the_brave, and thank you to all the organizers, participants, and supporters of the bang. It's been a great experience dipping my toes into creating for this fandom. :)
> 
>  
> 
> [Apriicat](http://apriicat.tumblr.com/) \- I'm grateful to have participated - it was especially interesting this year because I've never participated in this particular fest, and doing a collab with an author was really cool.


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